


The Hermit, Reversed

by SantaCecilia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 100+ subs! Aw thank you guys <3, And we don't talk enough about that, Aziraphale wants to be virtuous but misbehaving just runs in his blood, But he copes, But they're human in this one, Canon typical alcohol intake, Canon typical disregard for the powers that be, Crowley has so many issues, Crowley is bad at names - and so is Crowley's POV, Crowley is good with kids, Fill your Good Omens bingo card with repurposed lines stolen directly from the show, Florist Crowley, Gratuitous mix-and-match of ep 3 opening scenes, Heavily inspired by over 10 years of watching British whodoneits, I'm fine with that but consider yourself warned lol, M/M, Madame Tracy's real name is Marjorie Potts, Major character whump later on - way way later on, Priest Aziraphale, Slow Burn, So just hang in there, So there's a thing to consider, Sounding, The Holy Roman Church and a fair few of its issues getting mentioned more or less passingly, The village life AU that no one asked me for, This is probably some kind of blasphemy, This starts out well-behaved but it will get dirty, Victorian Flower Language, no seriously, the Arrangement but instead of doing each other's jobs they're just doing each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 190,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SantaCecilia/pseuds/SantaCecilia
Summary: Crowley needs a change of scenery and some fresh air - so like the poorly thought-through disaster on two wobbly legs that he is, he ups and leaves the fast life in London for Bumfuck, Oxfordshire - also known as Tadfield. Things, however, turn more complicated than he had expected - because, of course, OF COURSE - and Crowley finds that the boring little village stirs him just as much as he thought he would be stirring the village.The last thing Aziraphale needs is a change of anything. He has everything handled just nicely in his peaceful little parish where he is the sole priest at a small Catholic church. But the latest addition to the village line-up brings an unholy host of unexpected situations with him...EDIT: ch 4 is up. Plot is now actually GOING somewhere and not just thickening, so come one, come all <3
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 464
Kudos: 244
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

_Tuesday, 2nd May_  
  
Crowley sipped his coffee and considered the house across the street, a large old thing that had been turned into a semi-detached arrangement. On one side the front yard was a sorry mess of poorly kept gravel with long tufts of dry grass sticking up all over and both the tall fence, the door and the windows were in dire need of a new coat of paint.  
The other half was neatly kept with well-weeded cobblestones on the ground, pink mail box, a short picket fence painted white and cutesy lace curtains in the front window framing an electric "OPEN" sign. Only three kinds of business had that kind of sign and Crowley sincerely doubted that the dollhouse across the street contained either a pizza place or a tattoo parlour, leaving just one, somewhat exotic option.  
 _How metropolitan_ , Crowley thought sardonically as he downed the last mouthful of coffee and shuffled away from the window. _Just about the only such thing in the village_. He rinsed his mug out and dropped it in the washer, slipped on his leather jacket and checked his hair one last time in the mirror by the door before grabbing a box of a few necessities.  
Show time.  
He was locking up when he heard a door open across the street. He briefly cast a glance over his shoulder, turned back to his task of locking the door... and did a double take.  
Out flounced a woman so completely matched to her house that Crowley had to inwardly bow down to her commitment; Bright orange hair in rollers wrapped in pink tulle, fluffy kitten heel slippers, silk dressing down with a large flower embroidery down one side, false lashes so massive they could be seen from the moon. Bloody fabulous.  
Crowley simultaneously cringed at how over-the-top it was and vowed to start dressing like that when he reached 65.  
The woman had clippity-clapped her way out to her mail box in her heels. As she thumbed through the retrieved letters she must have caught sight of the movement of Crowley walking to his car from the door.  
"Oh! Good morning!" she greeted him with an affected little wave and a heavy London accent shining through. The sound of home.  
Crowley nodded in greeting.  
"'Morning' ma'm," he replied, opening the passengers side door to drop his box off on the seat.  
The fabulous neighbor lady giggled and waved a dismissive hand at him.  
"Aw, no need for that, dearie. We're not on the clock. 'Marjorie' is all for free."  
Crowley smirked.  
Marjorie watched him coquettishly over the edge of her handful of letters as he sauntered around the front of the car to the driver's side.  
"Classy babe magnet," she cooed.  
"S'not working," Crowley shrugged.  
"Oh?" Marjorie frowned. "Engine trouble?"  
Crowley smothered a grin.  
"Nah, but you're still all the way over there, so the magnet ain't working, issit?." he said casually, leaning on the roof of the Bentley.  
Marjorie howled delightedly.  
"Oh, stop it, you horror," she shot back, swatting in Crowley's general direction with her mail, lashes fluttering.  
Crowley smiled smoothly. He popped the door open.  
"I will," he said, teasingly ominous. "For now." he added.  
Marjorie cocked her hip to one side.  
"I'll take that as a promise, Mr..?"  
"Crowley, no 'Mr'," Crowley sniffed, swinging himself into the driver seat. "You take care now, Marjorie."  
"I always do," Marjorie said with a smirk that could have meant a hundred things before Crowley shut the car door and took off.

Taking the Bentley to work was definitely a tad excessive. It was a small village and the distance hardly warranted anything beyond a bike. But Crowley was nothing if not a man of principles, and driving his four-wheeled baby everywhere was one such principle. He managed to squeeze it into the small yard that his new business shared with the shops on either side - some holistic crystal mombo-jombo to the right and a shut-down tourist info office to the left - in the village high street. If you could call it that. It was more like a slightly less sleepy street, leading from the "large" - a highly relative term, it seemed - crossroads which the housed the pub on one corner and, diagonally opposite, the local newspaper, and down to the village green beyond which a small church sat. Crowley had glowered something fiercely at the church as when he had first caught sight of it, but thankfully it was invisible from where he was currently fishing his box out of his car, sheltered by the second floor of the shop building.  
A door to his right rattled open and... a set-extra from a western period drama popped out with a tied up bin liner in one hand. She stopped dead in her tracks when she caught sight of Crowley and peered suspiciously at him through her thick-rimmed glasses.  
"Can I help you?"  
An actual Yankee? That was a surprise.  
"Nope," Crowley said calmly, locking the Bentley with a push of a button and a very expensive-sounding WEE-WEE.  
Laura Ingalls glared harder than ever. Crowley could not exactly blame her. He hardly looked like he belonged in a yard behind a florist's in the backwater of Nowhere, Oxfordshire. He sauntered up to the door, box under his arm, and stuck his free hand under the upturned flower pot on the ground pulling out the key that had been sitting around for the tradesmen and the interior designer to let themselves in and out while Crowley had sat snugly in London, doing rat-all.  
"Oh, you're the mystery man," Annie Oakley said, finally picking up where she'd left off and getting rid of her bin liner in the waste bin that was crammed in between the brick steps leading to hers and Crowley's back doors, respectively. "The secret benefactor who graced us all with the promise to revive the village flower shop." She bowed mockingly. "And our yard with your damn mountain of boxes..." She added dryly, gesturing at the large stack of crates of fresh flowers that would have been delivered half an hour earlier.  
Crowley grimaced disdainfully.  
"Please tell me people don't actually care that much," he groaned, dignifiedly ignoring her last remark. He had expressly told the delivery service to drop those box inside... Good thing he had yet to pay the bill...  
"Oh, no. They care," the American lady's voice cut through his grouching. "This reopening is the biggest thing to happen in this village since they realised I'm American."  
Crowley stared at her morosely from behind his sunglasses.  
"Great. Grand. Excellent."  
The Yankee lady sniffed.  
"Should make for good business at least. I'm Anathema Device, by the way. Howdy neighbour." she said tartly.  
Crowley fumbled the key into the lock and wrestled the door open.  
"Crowley."  
Anathe- what?? - nodded and slunk back into her shop.  
"Good luck Mr Crowley," she said ominously before closing the door, leaving behind a strong whiff of incense.  
" _Gewd lahck,_ " Crowley sneered under his breath sliding inside, to have a look around the backroom which contained nothing beside a work table with a sink, a wheeled bar stool and a large flower fridge.  
"Right then... to work," Crowley muttered, propping the door open with the box he was still holding and began hauling in crates and stocking the shop. It took forever and he was absolutely not willing to talk about how out of breath it left him. He was not opening this shit show sweaty. No way. He looked at his watch. He still had 20 minutes before the sign in the window of the shop door had promised the public that he would be open for business. Hardly the relaxing morning he had counted on. With a sigh he snatched the box and let the backdoor swing shut and trudged upstairs to the small office. At least his interior designer had done well, what was her name again? Mable? Nah. Mary? No, that was the delightful lady of ill repute across the road, right? Crowley shrugged and dropped the box off on his desk before slipping back downstairs and outside to have a smoke before the full rural small-town madness was unleashed upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ch is a bit short, BUT we're only getting started, innit? :D Next ch will be up shortly to compensate and after that it'll probably be a weekly affair :)


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a quiet morning with only a few customers. It made sense since most of the population of the village left to earn actual money somewhere less bloody dead. That might have sounded like a good thing, a gentle start to life as a shop owner, slowly being inserted into the community - _not_. The lack of traffic through the shop had meant that the handful of pensioners, who had come in to have a peek and buy a small bouquet for the dinner table, had felt free to take all the time in the damn world to make smalltalk, not only with each other, but horrifyingly with Crowley as well, in between asking him every single flower related bloody question under the sun, each and everyone of them, upon entering the shop, breaking out into eerily similar monologues about how delightful it was to see the flower shop reopened. Crowley had narrowly ducked having his cheek pinched. Twice.  
_Christ on a bike..._ If ever there had been a shred of doubt, it was quickly becoming clear that village life was every bit as goddamned boring and horrendous as Crowley had feared and that this whole 'get out of London, get some air, a proper garden and a greenhouse, leave behind the rat race' lark was every bit as stupid as he had thought while nonetheless planning and prepping for it, buying the shop, selling the nightclub, making doubly sure to not leave behind a new address for one or two... companions he had been semi-regularly gracing with his time, if not exactly outright attention, when his itches needed scratching...  
The electric bell over the door rang through the extra speaker Crowley had installed in his upstairs office where he was getting himself a cup of capsule espresso to try and calm his raging blood pressure after the last old lady had finally fucked off with a potted sea thrift.  
"On my way," he called, not really caring if he was being loud enough to actually make himself heard downstairs and only lazily making his way back behind the counter.  
By the counter a brusque-looking older man was waiting with a disgruntled look on his face.  
_Why, hello, sunshine_ , Crowley thought sardonically.  
"Can I help you?" he asked shortly as the man continued to glare with dismay at Crowley's carefully roughed-up raw brick walls and artfully rust-spotted industrial shelving units, ignoring Crowley.  
The man snapped around to look Crowley up and down, his face slowly growing slightly horrified and even more dismayed as he took in Crowley's skinny jeans, silk shirt and sunglasses. Indoors.  
"Ah, yes. Hello," the man began in an affected posh accent. He stuck out a hand. "R. P. Tyler. Neighbourhood Watch."  
Crowley cooly considered the proffered hand. After a moment he shook it firmly.  
"Crowley." Crikey, this was getting old...  
"On behalf of the Neighbourhood Watch," Mr Taylor continued, still in that bloody accent that made Crowley want to gag slightly. "I have come to welcome you to Lower Tadfield."  
Crowley half expected him to whip some sort of awful baked good out of his pocket. A fruitcake or something...  
_The only fruitcake here is you, which you proved by moving here in the first place..._ he thought to himself while Mr Taylor waffled on and on about the expectations people had for their neighbours and their behavior in a 'respectable village' like Tadfield. 'Respectable', Crowley's arse. He considered asking if Mr Taylor had ever actually met Crowley's neighbour across the street. But in case Mr Taylor had in fact not, Crowley decided to stick to his age-old gun of not being a snitch. Instead he cleared his throat, interrupting the welcome speech.  
"May I help you Mr Taylor?" he asked smoothly.  
The older man paused with a miffed look on his face.  
"Well, since I'm here, I may as well... Something I can plant." he said with an exasperation as if he had already tried to explain this to Crowley in every way imaginable.  
Crowley slinked over to a shelf and grabbed a black plastic pot from a styrofoam frame.  
"These are in season," he noted plainly, holding out the pot of miniature daffodils.  
Mr Taylor did not seem to appreciate this advice.  
"I'll take a pot of lavender," he snapped.  
Crowley nodded in concession. "Lavender it is," he said tightly, sauntering leisurely across the shop and swept down to pluck out a pot of the requested flower in a bend-and-snap to that there blonde lawyer chick, from that film, proud. Mr Taylor, less so, by all accounts. Crowley strolled to the counter and rang up the lavender.  
"Anything else?" he asked  
"No, thank you."  
"4 quid," Crowley beamed.  
His unwavering gaze, though hidden behind his sunglasses, had Mr Taylor bristling. He pulled some loose change out of his wallet and waited impatiently while Crowley took his sweet time bagging the lavender. He put the coins down hard on the counter and snatched the bag as Crowley held it out towards him.  
"Good day," he said, still a scandalised twitch around his mouth as he cast one last look at Crowley, who leaned himself prettily against the counter and cocked his hip. He kept a stiff smile until Mr Taylor had left the shop and freed a leash, that Crowley presumed had some sort of dog on the other end, from the hook outside and had hurried along down the pavement. Then he let out a long raspberry and stuck up two fingers.  
"Tosser..."  
With a huff he downed the rest of his now luke warm coffee and went to the fridge in the back and grabbed a random assortment of flowers. He dumped them on the store counter and started deleafing the stems. After a minute he pulled out his phone and opened the app controlling the very expensive sound system he had had installed and put on a random play list. Queen, as it turned out. Eh, fine by him. He hummed along to Freddie and made his way through the first pile of flowers. He sorted them into buckets and went to grab a new pile.  
Returning to the counter he peered out through the shop window, large ones he had had put in instead of the small pathetic ones that had been shown in the sales papers. This offered him a good view of the bakery window opposite, by which the fabulous lady from the dollhouse across the street was talking to... what looked to be a well-scrubbed and very enthusiastic potato wearing a wig made of teddybear stuffing. The man was gesturing animatedly and... the lady from across the street, her-name-was-Mary-right?, was laughing delightedly. Crowley couldn't help but share her delight in his own way. Whoever the gesturing potato was, he had a nice arse.  
Crowley snorted and shook his head. The fine-arsed potato's white-blond hair wasn't particularly indicative of any age, and judging by the way he was dressed the guy had to be 80, even if his posture seemed to suggest that estimate to be excessive. Just as Crowley was about to distractedly muck up a handful of white roses, her-name-had-to-be-Mary-he-was-sure-of-it, gave the ageless booty-potato a friendly squeeze on the arm and circumnavigated him on the pavement, prompting him to turn around to look after her as they said their final goodbyes.  
Never in his life had Crowley wanted to shag a potato, but good Lord, had that just changed. It seemed the man - roughly 50 years of age, give or take a few - was dressed like a potato in some sort of attempt to counteract the fact that his smile could've lit up the entire village on a moonless night. Crowley gave up on his roses and just slumped against the work counter while the smiling sexpot by the bakery window checked his shopping list and briefly directed his megawatt smile at a passer-by in greeting.  
Crowley cocked his head and scratched his neck absentmindedly.  
"Damn..."  
Suddenly he was rudely pulled out of his shameless potato-ogling as Raggedy Anne from the shop next door swung herself out her own front door and directly in through Crowley's. Crowley blinked, frowned and just had time to lean to the side to watch the cutest arse in the village strut out of view before the annoying Yankeedoodle lady reached the counter.  
"What're you looking at?" she asked, frowning at Crowley's intent face.  
Crowley pulled a face  
"Checking out some arse. You interrupted me," he grumbled.  
"Ooh! Who?"  
Crowley was not about to own up to lusting after the sexy potato so he just sniffed and returned to his roses.  
"Did you want something?" he asked with annoyance.  
"Wanted to ask if you fancied lunch?" Raggedy Anne said with a surly grimace.  
Crowley sighed and dropped his scissors.  
"Just so we're clear, lunch lady, it was a guy's arse I was checking."  
"Well shit, someone get me a chair, I am shocked!" she deadpanned.  
They glowered silently at each other for a long moment.  
"So. Lunch?"  
Crowley considered her offer with narrowed eyes. Then he shrugged.  
"Yeah, why the Hell not." He wandered back into the backroom. "Just let me lock up real quick."  
Anna..? yeah, Anna, followed him.  
"Eh, why bother, nothing's gonna happen," she said.  
Crowley turned the lock on the back door.  
"Yeah, right," he said. He shooed the young woman towards the shop front. "G'won, then. Lunch. Where?"  
"It's Wednesday so I'm going the pub," Anna shrugged as the she opened the door and set off the door bell. Crowley decided he needed to change the jingle or pretty soon he would be loosing his last good marble.  
Once outside he turned to lock the front door but Anna snatched his keys.  
"Welcome to village Mr Crowley," she said tersely.  
"Don't call me "mister", that's for old people!" Crowley groused trying to grab his keys back. Anna dodged his attack and danced down the street towards the pub, jangling the keys in front of Crowley's face. He gave up on trying to retrieve them and begrudgingly strolled along after her. On her way down the street she gave him a quick introduction to the shops and the people running them.  
"Bakery - I recommend coming in after 10, Bert's in a better mood then. Thrift store... Guessing you won't be needing that. Corner shop. If you ever need a quick handful of cash, Betty will see you right about it... and here's the hair dressers... Ask for Laura if you're feeling chatty. If you're not - do under no circumstances ask for Laura," she said with a poignantly raised brow.  
Crowley hummed. He never felt the least bit chatty when getting his hair cut so this was actually useful advice. Not that he was too likely to venture into the rather shabby-looking little shop with its slightly chipped front and the gaudy pink sofa with it's back turned towards the front window, but if an emergency should arise, it was good to know to avoid this Laura character rather than add insult to injury.  
They had made it to the cross roads.  
"News agent's," Anna said gesturing broadly across the street. "Proud home of the esteemed Tadfield Advertiser."  
Crowley wondered what the devil this hole in the ground, that was the village, could possibly have to advertise, but then realised that perhaps throwing a handful of dosh at the rag for an ad of his own might not be such a terrible idea.  
"Aaand here we have it. The local watering hole," Anna finished as they crossed the street. "Welcome to the Apple Tree, where Lower Tadfield happens," she said with sardonic drama pushing the door open. Crowley sauntered after her inside and looked around.  
It was... very brown. Just every shade of brown imaginable, really. It had old news paper clippings of different local events and happenings in frames on the walls in between lacquered brass sconces. There was a worn-out runner on the floor, so threadbare you could barely see the pattern anymore and above the bar a length of string, bearing a number of limp-looking pennants, was hung.  
Crowley was not a pub guy. He was a bar guy. A lounge guy. A 'fashionable popmusic played at a semi-low volume while over-priced cocktails were sipped' guy. A nightclub guy. Really, any sort of establishment, that would serve him alcohol while not being a pub, would do him.  
"Authentic..." he said flatly.  
He noticed a few people already eating their lunches staring at him as he just stood there like an idiot, staring. He scoffed and strolled up to the bar, where Anna was placing her order, at what he hoped was a leisurely pace. There was a menu hung on the wall behind the bar but... eh. Crowley figured he could go for chips. And definitely some alcohol.  
A stocky, red-faced man, who seemed to have, perhaps not wrongly, decided that shaving his head held more dignity than flashing his receding hairline to the world, took their orders, eyeing Crowley curiously. Anna called the man "Reg", and he made some sort of joke about her shop as she and Crowley wandered off to a table in the corner, Crowley with a pint in hand.  
"I thought I saw Arpee circling by your shop earlier?" Anna asked.  
Crowley frowned.  
"Who?"  
"R. P. Tyler, neighbourhood watch," Anna intoned in a half-decent imitation of the high-strung geezer from earlier that morning.  
"Oh, that Taylor guy, yeah, he stopped by," Crowley smiled grimly. "Don't think he liked me much."  
"I don't think he really likes anyone to be perfectly fair," Anna said. "Especially not if you call him 'Taylor'," she finished with a snort.  
Crowley raised a brow.  
"It's his name??" he asked incredulously.  
Anna rolled her eyes.  
"Listen carefully; Ty. Ler." she said slowly.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"The Hell's the difference," he sniffed indifferently as the barman dropped off Anna's sparkling water.  
"Spelling?" Anna suggested.  
Crowley blew a raspberry at her and sipped his pint.  
"Oh, look who it is!" Mary had showed up, startling Crowley slightly as she suddenly appeared by his side. "If it isn't the horrible boy from across the street!" She winked at Crowley who collected himself and smirked.  
"Nice to see you too, Mary."  
A beat of silence.  
Mary stared blankly at Crowley. So did Anna.  
"Mary?" the neighbour lady then asked slowly.  
"Yes..?" Crowley ventured.  
Anna spluttered with laughter.  
"Mary!"  
"Do I look like a Mary?!" the lady from across the street, guess-her-name-wasn't-fucking-Mary-after-all, asked affrontedly.  
The barman chose the exact moment to turn up with their food orders.  
"Who looks like a Mary?" he asked.  
"Marjorie, apparently," Anna snickered.  
The barman gave them a look, then wandered off shaking his head slightly.  
"I've got your order right here, Marjie," he said over his shoulder.  
Marjorie nodded sweetly at him before turning to Crowley again, sputtering.  
"Mary! Rarely have I been so offended!" she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.  
"And that's saying something..." Anna said through a mouthful of chips. "Living next to the sergeant."  
Marjorie tutted.  
"You be good to my poor old Mr S, now," she scolded with a small smirk. "He's just gets flustered, is all." she said, fluffing up her curls slightly. Behind her the barman called out, holding up a styrofoam box in a plastic bag. "I gotta go now," she said. "I've half an hour before a regular. Bye now darlings." She shot Crowley a playfully offended look. "Mary..." she sniffed.  
Crowley raised his pint in salute, his mouth full.  
Anna caught his eyes.  
"Mary?" she asked exasperatedly.  
Crowley just flipped her off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley being bad at names is so much fun to write xD
> 
> Promised you I would update soon :) From now on it's a Monday 'do


	3. Chapter 3

They finished their lunches and headed back down the street. Once outside their shop front doors, Crowley stopped to properly take in Anna's shop. She still had the small awful bay windows and the window sills inside were decorated with an incense burner, a set of polished pebbles with little runes carved into them, spilling skillfully casually out of a velvet bag and an assortment of colorful crystals and rocks, some large and sitting on their own, some small and hanging on gold chains from elaborate holders or lying in neat little boxes, all of it on a backdrop of deep purple crushed velvet, artfully draped. The small window panes of the front door had been decorated with decals of pentacles and a few characters that Crowley recognised as ancient Greek planetary symbols.  
What in the fresh, herbal tea-drinking, snake oil Hell had he ended up next to?? And in this sorry excuse for a hole in the ground no less?!  
Anna frowned at him.  
"What?" she asked bitingly, one foot on her front step.  
Crowley made a noncommittal noise.  
"I just... hadn't realised you were this daft," he said casually.  
Anna bristled and was about to serve up a, no doubt, scathing remark but then she deflated again and raised a brow.  
"Wait - You mean you didn't know what kinda shop I ran?" she asked incredulously. "But you... you've bought the place right next door??"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"I never went to look at it," he said. "I just bought it."  
"Without checking it out first?!"  
"I trusted my estate agent," Crowley said with another shrug.  
Anna stared unabashedly.  
"Had you even been to Tadfield before moving here..?" she asked slowly.  
"Nope," Crowley popped, shoving his hands in his pockets. As someone passed them on the pavement, briefly greeting Anna and ogling Crowley, he added. "Starting to realise that might have been a slight miscalculation..."  
Anna shook her head slowly, still looking at Crowley like she had no idea what to do with him. Then she flung her shop door open.  
"Right. That's it. In," she commanded pointing a stiff finger. "Now."  
Crowley was in no rush to return to his own shop so he obligingly, although at his own sweet pace, trudged inside.  
The shop was tastefully lit, just dim enough to give it a bit of atmosphere without obscuring the wares. There were more crystals on the shelves as well as deck upon deck of tarot cards in different designs, books with images of old pagan gods or horoscopes on the covers, vials of oil with different plants on the labels. The counter had a display of what looked like herbal teas and licorice roots and behind the counter sat a large shelf with a screened-off UV light above it on which several potted aloe plants sat. The entire place reeked of incense.  
"Come here."  
Anna dragged Crowley over to a small table in the corner with a long table cloth over it - the same crushed velvet as decorated the windows - and pushed him into a chair.  
"We just went on one lunch date," Crowley said dryly.  
Anna rolled her eyes, stuck her hand in an old wooden chest on a shelf and pulled out a deck of cards.  
"You clearly haven't a fucking clue what you're doing here, so I'm giving you this as a housewarming present," she said shuffling the cards briskly before spreading them out in a fan on the table.  
Crowley scoffed.  
"Tarot reading? Really? I'd much rather have one of your aloe plants," he said.  
"You need all the help you can get," came the snippy reply. "Now pick three cards,"  
"This isn't actually going to help -"  
"Three cards. Now."  
Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes but plucked out three cards.  
Anna laid them out in front of her.  
"This is your past -" she started pointing to the first card.  
"I know my past," Crowley interrupted impatiently. "How's that gonna help -"  
"This is your past!" Anna repeated loudly with a glare. "This is your present," she prodded the second card. "And this is your future." she finished gesturing to the last card. "So -"  
She flipped the first card over.  
"The Emperor, reversed; Coldness. Tyranny," she pondered, stealing a glance at Crowley who slouched in his seat and schooled his face to a mask of casual disinterest. Tarot cards were bollocks. Yeah. Definitely bollocks.  
The second card was turned.  
"Six of Swords, reversed," she said with a frown. "Unresolved issues, emotional baggage..."  
Crowley still kept his face carefully in check. Anna seemed to be in a bit of a hurry turning over his last card.  
"Two of Cups," she said with a sigh. "Unity and connection. Partnership."  
"Eh, that's kind of you to make the offer but it's a bit soon don't you think?" Crowley joked dryly. "We've only just met, it's all so sudden."  
Anna rolled her eyes.  
"Somewhat vague cards," she said considering them carefully.  
Crowley got out of his seat.  
"They're all vague," he said, stretching. "All that kind of fortune telling bollocks is, that's how you make it fit."  
"Maybe you just weren't trying hard enough when you picked your cards." Anna said thoughtfully.  
"Of course I wasn't trying, it's all nonsense," Crowley sniffed, prodding at a statue of some sort of priestess-like figure with her arms raised to the sky.  
"It's not bollocks!" Anna insisted. She gathered up her deck and shuffled it thoroughly. "Here. Ask a question, out loud, and draw a card. Then we'll see if it comes true or not."  
Crowley wanted to argue but she was practically shoving the cards up his nose so he ducked away and sighed.  
"Okay. Question. Question... Will I be getting any tail in the foreseeable future?" he asked exasperatedly.  
Anna plucked a card out of the deck and flipped it sideways in her palm.  
"The Hermit, reversed; Loneliness, isolation. A lost way." she said.  
Crowley burst out laughing.  
"'A lost way'?? To where, the bedroom?? That's not a fucking answer to my question!" he cackled. "There you have it; Utter bollocks."   
"Maybe you just won't be getting any?" Anna suggested.  
Crowley stopped laughing and snorted.  
"Thanks bloody much."  
"Or it could be referring to the person you'll be getting it on with," Anna argued. "Could be a description."  
Crowley snorted again and started making his way to the door. He would rather be dealing with chatty old people than this crap.  
"Doesn't sound like a very good shag, does it?" he snickered.  
Anna looked reluctant to agree but chuckled.  
"You never know - maybe troubled people fuck better," she said conversationally, trailing after him to the door.  
Crowley laughed loudly and bridged the gap between their front steps, battling with the keys in the lock before remembering that he had not locked it.  
"Maybe pick a card for yourself to predict if I'm about to come back over and murder you because I've had something nicked thanks to your open door policy," he said tersely before slipping into his shop. He could hear Anna laughing behind him as the door closed.

Business picked up as people returned from their jobs outside the village, so now Crowley was also treated to the 'so glad to see this place reopened' speech from people his own age and younger. At a few past five, the shop had finally emptied and Crowley was low-key contemplating giving up on the flower business and opening a tearoom instead, considering the number of women who had just been hanging out and chatting. Suddenly a car flung itself against the curb outside. The door was flung open and some yummy-mummy number in her late thirties with a blonde bob hurried in.  
"Good afternoon," she said, with a desperate glint in her eyes. "I know this is an odd request, but we had a delivery fall through and we're a bit... pressed for time?" She looked at her wrist watch and winced.  
Crowley blinked.  
"Uh. Yeah, sure, okay, can't work miracles... but what do you need?" he said slowly.  
"Flower arrangements. Two. White flowers."  
Crowley nodded.  
"Alright, I have a list of prices -"  
"Oh, never mind those, we'll have it refunded, just pass us an invoice later," the woman said with a stressed smile.  
"Uh... Okay." Crowley shrugged. "Size?"  
"A medium sort of thing?" the woman asked, shuffling her feet and checking her watch again. "I really do hate to rush you but we're starting in... 23 minutes," she said with an apologetic grimace.  
Crowley gave up on questions and just dove into the buckets of precut flowers. Doing flower decorations on time was not something he had done before, but whatever. He managed to whip up something with peonies and ferns and slip them into a crate.  
"Er, should I...?" he pointed towards the car parked outside.  
"Yes, please!"  
Crowley practically threw the crate into the passenger's seat while the woman checked her watch.  
"Still 7 minutes left," she sighed. "Will you be joining us?" she then asked Crowley as she opened the driver's side door.  
Crowley frowned.  
"I'd happily join you anywhere, ma'm, but... where exactly?" he joked with a smirk.  
The woman blushed slightly and shook her head with a small smile.  
"At Mass." she said. "Just thought I might offer you a lift if you were going, is all," she finished gesturing to the car.  
Crowley's stomach turned to ice.  
"Nope. Not going," he said, stepping away from the car. He did not bother with any form of goodbye, he just turned on his heel and marched back into his shop. Behind him he heard the car do a three point turn and speed off in direction of the village green.  
Crowley packed up the shop for the day, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary. He locked up and went poking his nose at the door of the shop next door, but found it already locked up. Dang. He could use a drinking buddy but... eh. No such luck was had. Behind him the church bells went off, grinding in his ears. With a growl he skulked off to the pub. Once there he ordered himself a large whiskey and soda and hid himself away in a corner.  
The barman - Roy? - dropped off his drink and was apparently feeling chatty now. Great.  
"So, you're the new florist, eh?" he said. "Didn't want to interrupt nothing today," he said with a wink that made Crowley groan internally. The barman stuck out a hand. "Reg Miller."  
Crowley shook it briefly.  
"How do you like the village so far?" Reg continued merrily. Crowley nearly groaned outwardly this time.  
"Time will tell," he said shortly.  
This was visibly not the answer Reg had hoped for and he started to retreat but Crowley called him back.  
"Actually, I have a question..." he said, thoughtfully running a finger over the rim of his glass. "That dear little church of yours..."  
Reg raised a brow.  
"What of it?"  
"Tell me about it," Crowley said smoothly.  
"Oh, pfft... What to tell? It's called Saint Dwynwen."  
"And the denomination?" Crowley prodded.  
"Catholic," Reg said slowly. "Why?"  
"Nothing," Crowley said dismissively. "Nothing at all." he finished darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn~  
> The plot thickens


	4. Chapter 4

"Deidre! Deidre! Have you seen - oh goodness, oh da - Oh!"  
Aziraphale was spinning in circles, alb on but not zipped in the neck, stole in one hand and the other one fluttering desperately.  
Deidre stuck her head back in through the door she had just left through after reassuring Aziraphale that the flower situation had been resolved.  
"What are you missing?"  
"My... Ooh!" Aziraphale flung the stole over one shoulder and rummage through a drawer frantically. "My cincture! My green cincture! I can't seem to find it anywhere!" he fussed.  
"Then use the white one?" Deidre suggested.  
Aziraphale pouted.  
"Oh, but... the green one..." he wavered.  
"You have two and a half minutes to wiggle your way into the rest of your get-up! We're going white today." Deidre said sternly, diving a hand into the drawer and throwing the length of silk rope at him.  
Aziraphale sulked hard for a second, then sighed in defeat and closed his eyes.  
"Gird me, oh Lord..." he started before trailing off to a low mumble while Deidre slipped back into the church.

The sound of bells as he was closing up and the knowledge that they were Catholic bells had managed to irk Crowley enough that he had slinked his way towards the village green and had taken up a post across the road from the church, fag in the corner of his mouth and a scowl on his face.  
Why, of all places, did he have to plop himself down in a village with a Catholic church?! Why had he not checked?! He let his frown deepen to its heart's content and threw the butt of his cigarette on the ground, grinding his boot over it just as the church doors opened and out came -  
No. Oh for fuck's sake, no, this was unfair.  
Serving no purpose other than to further sour Crowley's mood, out walked the smiling sex potato, dressed in full vestments, taking up a spot by the door, his back turned towards Crowley, animatedly nodding and shaking hands here and there as the church-goers filed out. The last in line was the stressed yummy-mummy, who had come rushing into the shop, with a kid by her side. They stopped to make conversation. The sex potato-turned-priest gave the kid a friendly hair-ruffle. The kid protested and ducked awat saying something Crowley did not quite catch.  
"... this instead..." was all he heard. The kid now appeared to be instructing the cutest fucking priest Crowley had ever seen on how to pass out an acceptable fist bump. Why-oh-why-are-you-a-priest-gorgeous-don't-do-this-to-me seemed baffled at the concept but the boy appeared satisfied. He trotted ahead of his mother who gave Crowley's new heartache a pat on the arm before following her son after another brief exchange of words.  
"7:30!" she called over her shoulder.  
"I'll be there half an hour early!" the priest promised with a glowing smile. "Or half an hour late..." he added with frown. "The Lord works in mysterious ways!" he finished with a shrug.  
"So does your watch!" the boy yelled from the wall surrounding the parking lot where he had taken a seat and was now wrestling with the wrapper of a lollipop while waiting for his mother. Both adults laughed and Britain's Hottest Priest Anno 2017 vanished into the church which swallowed him like the towering monster it was as the doors swung shut behind him.  
Crowley slinked off to the pub, kicking, or at least attempting to kick, everything that came close enough, including a cat that would have found itself launched into orbit had Crowley's aim not been so absolutely appalling there never really was much threat to his attack in the first place.  
At the pub he threw himself into a chair at the bar and flagged down the bartender, ordering his new standard, a large whiskey and soda.  
"Tough day, dearie?" a voice cooed.  
Crowley turned his head and paused.  
"Marjorie," he then said smoothly, hoping he had in fact remembered it correctly this time - Ana-whatever-the-fuck had teased him about the 'Mary' incident as they both closed up their shops and had been kind enough to remind Crowley of the woman's actual name. He earned himself a coquettish fluttering of eyelashes.  
"Oh, you finally cheapened yourself enough to remember my name," she teased slipping onto the chair next to him, rolling an empty glass between her hands.  
Crowley turned on his most charming smile.  
"Aw, come now, doll, be fair, if I can't remember your name I'm clearly challenged in that regard," he purred. "There could be no other way I'd forget you."  
Marjorie laughed girlishly and blushed under her foundation.  
"Aren't you just a tall drink of trouble," she cackled. "And speaking of drinks, might I trouble you for a refill, luv?" she said sweetly to the bartender as he returned with Crowley's whiskey.  
Marjorie followed the glass with her eyes as Crowley raised it to his lips.  
"Quite alright, dearie? she asked narrowing her eyes inquisitively.  
Crowley sighed contentedly as he drained his drink in one fell swoop.  
"Nope, my problems just seem to be piling up today," he said aloofly while the image of the tubby little priest's tubby little angel-face and tubby little backside played before his eyes, taunting him.  
"First," he said, leaning in towards Marjorie, "the local church turns out the be Catholic of all things. Then my romantic advances are cruelly thwarted before I even had a chance to get 'em started." Marjorie's refill was delivered. By the looks of it it contained a lot of cranberry. "And then the prettiest lady in town comes sauntering in, accusing me, quite unfairly, of not finding her worth my time of day," Crowley finished wrinkling his nose cheekily at Marjorie who giggled again.  
"Well, about your romantic advances, I'll be happy to give you a quick run-through of... what's available in the local area," she offered with a wink.  
Crowley appreciated the sentiment, but there was no way the Greater Tadfield area could house two fellas as cute as the goddamn-fuck-why-me-why-this-fuck'ing priest, so why even bloody bother.  
"As for the church," Marjorie continued, blissfully unaware of Crowley's hardships. "it may not be as bad as you think."  
Crowley laughed sardonically.  
"Oh, trust me, doll, I know exactly how bad it is," he said firmly.  
For a second Marjorie's massive doe eyes seemed to stare straight into his soul from underneath a highly raised, pencil-thin brow.  
"He's a lot different from what you might expect, our Father A," she said, a gentle, pondering tone to her voice that came far too close to actually hitting the mark on something deep inside Crowley that had no business being hit on any marks.  
Crowley grimaced and sniffed.  
"He may be different, but he won't be that different, Marge, pet," he said, his well-practiced mask of arrogance slipping seamlessly into place. "He's not allowed to be."  
Marjorie smiled, but it had gained an edge of 'oh, so you doubt me, do you'. She took a sip of her drink and slipped off her chair.  
"You'd be surprised." she said plainly. Then she added; "You will be surprised, right now, actually, there he comes." She nodded her head towards the door. Crowley's greatest disappointment of the decade had just walked in, vestment-free, in all his fluffy beige glory, looking for all intents and purposes like a well-loved teddybear. Marjorie gave Crowley's arm a gentle squeeze. "Oh, and dearie? It's Marjie," she said with a flutter of false lashes. "Not Marge." She left with one last teasingly offended look at Crowley who chuckled and bowed mockingly.  
And then the fucking sex potato and his bloody tartan bowtie - what even?? - arrived at the bar, a few seats down from Crowley.  
"Good evening, Reg!" he greeted the bartender merrily.  
"Evening, Father! The usual?"  
"Just my whiskey!" the priest crowed contentedly. "I'm off to Deidre and Arthur's for dinner."  
Reg brought him a small whiskey and tottered off to wherever. Crowley just stared blankly while the priest happily sipped his drink. As he put down his glass he turned his head slightly and caught sight of Crowley, glowering.  
"Oh... Good evening..." he said politely with a small nod and a smile.  
Crowley grunted and turned away.  
"Oh, you're the new florist, aren't you?" the priest asked excitedly. "Jolly good what you did with the flowers! You really saved us." He had the audacity to actually slip off his barstool and move himself so he was seated right next to Crowley. "I swung past the shop to see if I could catch you and thank you but it was closed. Obviously, when you're here!" he beamed and _oh, that bloody smile_. "So, thank you so much for stepping up at the last minute when our regular supplier fell through."  
Crowley made a noncommittal groan. If he had known it had been for the Church...  
"Don't make a habit of it," he muttered.  
"Oh, no, well, see, we discussed that, Deidre, the parish director - you met her, today, of course - and I," the priest continued eagerly, undeterred by Crowley's standoffish attitude. "Now that we have a flower shop in the village again it seemed more proper if we were to put our business with you. So we wanted to ask if you would be interested in some regular work doing the flowers for the church?"  
Crowley bristled.  
"I don't want your money," he groused.  
The round blue eyes next to him turned saucer-sized.  
"Oh, no, we can't possibly take that!" the priest said with horror. "As kind as that your offer is, I must insist on paying you for your time and effort!"  
"You misunderstand, Father," Crowley said with a sardonic smile. "I'm not working for you." he sneered. "Roy!" he then called loudly to the barman. "Put it on my tab!"  
The priest shifted in his seat.  
"Can't we talk about it?" he asked with a put-down little frown as Crowley got off his barstool.  
"Nope," he said flatly before leaving the pub. He faintly heard the barman call after him; "Reg! It's Reg!"

Crowley was still spitting angry the next day when he opened up the shop. He hated the way it felt like something he had long since turned his back on was trying to worm its way under his skin, shaped like a cutesy, tubby little guy in a stupid bowtie. Hated the way fate had left him no choice but to hate that sunny smile. Hated that the Church owned that fucking smile... What a waste...  
The dog collared waste chose that moment to march up the steps to the shop door and walk in, back straight and nose in the air, although to be fair, his nose did that pretty much on its own without its owner really trying. Crowley wanted to run a finger over the bump - gahrg! Pull yourself together, man, for fu -  
"Mr Crowley?"  
The priest was at the counter, fingers skirting nervously along the edge of it. He was smiling sheepishly but insistingly at Crowley, his lips parting slightly and closing again as if he was trying to say something...  
"What?" Crowley bit.  
As opposed to last night the priest did seem to pick up on his tone. His chin dipped slightly into his starched collar, slightly reminding Crowley of a turtle retreating into its shell and also bringing out an indecently adorable chin roll.  
"Well, I..." The priest started brightly, after shaking himself up, but then his face fell again as if someone was playing with a dimmer switch and he cleared his throat. "No, that was all wrong," he said, frowning to himself. He took a deep breath and looked up at Crowley. "I never introduced myself last night," he started again, sticking out a hand, smile tentatively blooming once more. "I'm Father Aziraphale Fell, parish priest."  
"No shit," Crowley said shortly, ignoring the hand. "Did you want something?"  
Something in the priest's eyes sort of... withered.  
"I, uhm... I felt like we got off to an... awkward start. Last night, I... I mean..." he explained, pointing off into mid-distance before curling his hands up in front of his plump middle. "You clearly didn't appreciate the disturbance. It was terribly rude of me to bother you with business talk outside opening hours..."  
His bright smile had gone strained as if he was waiting for Crowley to throw something at him.  
"Well, I'm open now," Crowley sighed. He would have to physically remove the priest from the premises in order to lock up without being further stuck with the man. As much as that sounded like the prompt for a porno Crowley's brain was just waiting to both write and direct, actually being locked in with a priest was not ideal.  
The priest - Father... A... what? Angelface?? - smiled and nodded hurriedly.  
"Indeed. And how lovely that is! Once the decorating is all done it'll be brilliant, I'm sure!" he said with a smile.  
Crowley raised a brow. Well, that was pretty straight out of the hat.  
"This is as done as it's gonna get," he said.  
Father Angelface conjured up a look of sympathy to make Crowley gag. And pop a semi. Or maybe just a quarter, but in jeans as tight as Crowley's anything but cold weather was rated at least 15 and up.  
"Starting a business is expensive. And on top of buying a new house and everything, oof," he agreed, in that hushed voice adults always used when discussing how someone was hard up on the money front. "But it'll pick up soon enough, don't you worry, money's gonna come rolling in!" he finished excitedly with a small... punch into the air. "You'll have your walls done in no time!"  
Crowley had to seriously catch himself to not burst into hysterical laughter. You could not make this shit up.  
"Did you want something?" he managed to ask. The nerve of that man. Coming in here, looking delicious, even in his bloody dog collar, openly insulting the decor and accusing Crowley of being broke -!  
Father Angelface straightened his posture and took a deep breath.  
"As I said, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot," he started once again, a bit more confidently this time, having clearly been warmed up by their little... chat about Crowley's taste in interior design. "And I thought that I ought to rectify that -"  
"You can't," Crowley said dismissively, turning away to fluff up a bucket of yellow carnations in no need of fluffing.  
Father Angelface frowned.  
"Now, really, my dear fellow -" he began but Crowley cut him off again.  
"I'm not your dear anything, priest," he said coldly.  
The priest finally had the decency of looking put-off.  
"My apologies..." he said, squaring his shoulders. "But about the flower arrangements -"  
"I don't want your business. And you don't want my flowers," Crowley sneered. "Believe you me."  
"Would you stop interrupting me, for one second?!"  
Aha. So the man did have other gears than "village jovial". Crowley smirked with the satisfaction of having gotten a rise out of him. Served him right...  
"I will, if you stop talking to me," he said petulantly with a shit-eating smile, leaning against the counter, dropping a hip and cocking his head.  
The priest looked him up and down like he had a hard time believing that he was actually standing in front of a person as rude as Crowley.  
"Right then," he said with a frown. "In that case I shall bother you no further..."  
He slowly made his way to the door, still with a look of disbelief on his face.  
"I appreciate that," Crowley said with strained mildness in his voice. "I've been bothered enough by the likes of you already!" he called as door swung shut behind the priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. The plot actually starts properly going. Bet you thought that wasn't gonna happen at this point, eh?


	5. Chapter 5

The run-in with the priest had Crowley completely out of whack for the rest of the day. If he was this hard pressed from just a few encounters he would either have to move or get on beta blockers soon. After closing up he considering going to the pub for a drink and then dinner, but decided against it. Instead he went home, put on "Golden Girls", had a whiskey and some instant noodles and tried to wind down, but to no avail.  
The sense of... imminent danger was grating on Crowley's nerves. The feeling that something would come down on him like a ton of bricks, stripping away every ounce of self-esteem he had carefully built up. The feeling of being a cornered animal that Crowley worked so hard every day of his life adult to push away.  
He poured himself another whiskey. The one packet of noodles was not enough to mop up all the alcohol and he was starting to feel the buzz but it did nothing for his nerves. Like the masochistic fool that he was, Crowley paused Blanche Devereaux in the middle of a recount of some tryst in her youth, and slipped his jacket on. It was nearly half past ten and it was eerily quiet out as he walked through the village, past his shop and onto the green, making it through three fags on the walk there.  
The church loomed over him, somehow taller and more imposing than he knew it realistically should be. Crowley stuck his thumbs in his pockets and scowled the best he knew how at the building, from his, at this point somewhat usual, spot across the street. He let a breath, that almost sounded like a growl, out through his nose and allowed himself to take his eyes off the old double doors of the church to instead look around a bit more, sidling to the left for a better view.  
To the left of the doors there was a strip of greenery, some shrubs and small trees, not yet quite fully leafed, and beyond that stretched a large expanse of gravel, reaching from the gate leading to the small cemetery and into a larger yard, lines by several weather stone brick buildings. The largest building furthest to the left had a small area surrounded by a white picket fence in front of it, over which a bird house could be seen silhouetted. The rectory Crowley guessed. Its windows were dark, as were the those of the building furthest across the gravelled yard. The smallest building, hidden almost behind the church, however, had light streaming out from a single small window. As Crowley watched with increasing curiosity, the door opened, letting out even more light, before the beam was obstructed by the shadows of two people.  
Even as he stood there, backlit, Crowley recognised the priest. The other was a girl or a young woman, a bit on the heavyset side. Crowley snuck closer. What was so important she was seeing a priest at this time of night? Crowley decided to be an arsehole with no sense of propriety and snuck closer still, training his ears.  
As he hid behind a tall bush he realised the young woman was sniffling. The priest was trying to comfort her.  
"It's going to be alright, dearest. You just... take the best care of yourself that you can think of, yes? And let me do the worrying."  
"And you're sure about that, Father?" the woman - girl? - sniffed.  
"I promise you."  
The woman - girl? - sniffled out her thanks. Crowley peeked around the bush to watch her briefly hug the priest, who hugged her back, then the girl - woman? hurried off, luckily turning right as she left the church grounds, thusly not seeing Crowley as he stood there, eavesdropping, like a complete twat. There was something about the way she walked. Not just the way she was clearly trying to hide, her shoulders drawn up slightly, but... like she was trying to avoid... having her vitals touch each other inside her. Crowley had seen that walk before...  
He had straightened and, without realising, taken a fair few steps forward in order to keep watching the girl as she hurried along. He was about to sneak off when the priest - dog collar gone, top button undone, sleeves rolled up - appeared in the gap in the stone wall surrounding the church ground, also clearly watching the girl make her exit. He bit his lip with a frown, turned - and froze as he found himself face to face with Crowley, who was equally frozen in place.  
They stared at each other. Then Crowley raised a finger.  
"'She pregnant?" he asked, pointing down the street in the direction the girl had taken.  
The priest barely blinked. He eyed Crowley up and down, a defensive look gliding over his face like a shadow.  
"I..." His gaze flew back and forth, from the bushes to Crowley to the village green and back to the bushes. "I'm not at liberty to discuss anything said in confidence..." he then muttered, before turning away from Crowley with a jerk. "If you'll excuse me, I'll..."  
He took a few hurried steps, but Crowley felt like a bull who had had a red cloth waved in front of his face.  
"Another baptism coming up then?" he asked, sticking his thumbs in his jeans pockets, sauntering after the priest. "Spent your evening securing yourself some business, eh Father? Some relevance?"  
The priest visibly squirmed.  
"If you say so..." he muttered, once more trying to make an exit but Crowley kept on.  
"You doing the wedding too?"  
The priest stopped and frowned.  
"Wedding?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Yeah. Y'know," he sniffed and swaggered closer, like a lion leisurely walking up to a particularly terrified prey. "when she has to either marry the bloke or listen to you tell her off every Sunday, for being a slut."  
Crowley had almost hoped to get another rise out of the priest, a bit of a shouting match in the street in the middle of the night would have been grand - but what he got instead was... oddly charming in the snootiest, most childish way possible; The priest snorted and rolled his eyes with arrogant disdain.  
"It's not my job to tell people what to do," he sniffed cooly. "I simply implore them to search the murky corners of their conscience and decide what's best. And then I help them sweep up whatever conflict of faith that may or may not leave behind..."  
"Implore them to do whatever the Lord and his fanboys reckon is best," Crowley kept going, petulantly.  
"The Lord works in ineffable ways, I can only do what I believe to be right and then wait and see what happens -"  
"And hope your precious Lord doesn't disagree?" Crowley sneered.  
The priest huffed.  
"Yes, well, if Mavis is carrying the next Messiah I'm sure the Lord will find a way to dissuade her -!"  
He froze and slapped a hand over his mouth. It took Crowley a split second to realise why. When the penny did drop, he gaped.  
"You told her to get -"  
Crowley suddenly found himself grabbed roughly by the arm and hurled across the gravel yard, his feet nearly dragging on the ground as he scrambled to keep out. He was pulled up the stairs to the rectory and in through the front door which was then slammed shut behind him.  
"You -! You _fiend_!"  
Crowley stared. Father Angelface was staring at him hectically, cheeks burning and a stiff finger pointing straight at Crowley's nose.  
"That was said in confidence!" the priest shrieked. "You - you cannot under any circumstances -! And especially... you did not get this from me!"  
Crowley defensively hold up his hands.  
"A'ight, a'ight, I'm not about to argue with a priest who supports abortion," he said calmly.  
Father Angelface sputtered and turned even redder.  
"I do not -! That is to say... The Holy See has permitted that we absolve those who take such measures into use, so... but that is not the same as -"  
"Do what you find best and let me do the worrying," Crowley intoned with a menacing smirk.  
"Like I said, I have the power to grant her absolution from her sins... It's my duty as a priest to forgive those who repent..."  
This was a... surprising conversation to be having on a Wednesday night, cornered against the inside of the front door of a stranger's home. A priest's home...  
"So she was just dropping by to say sorry then?" Crowley prodded, not really because he wanted to snoop but because he felt like there was point to be made. "It's all done and dusted, she just needed a number of 'Ave Maria's' to do?  
The priest opened his mouth and Crowley watched with mild amusement as he clearly built up to serve a lie. But then he closed his mouth and looked away blowing a soft raspberry.  
"Well. I mean... Psh..." He snapped his head back up to look at Crowley with all the fury and determination of a puppy about to finish an already dead butterfly; "Besides, I fail to see what business of yours that is, anyway! You're just having a dig at me! And by all means, if it so amuses you, but you're keeping tight about this! She's terribly embarrassed and frightened by all of this, the poor thing!"  
Crowley considered the steely blue eyes as they glared at him.  
_He's a lot different from what you might expect, our Father A._  
Cute too, he was, when he was angry. Angry and protective.  
"I'm not a snitch," Crowley said earnestly.  
The priest deflated, looking almost a little shocked with himself. It was like watching a particularly small and ferocious sparrow flatten its feathers.  
"I appreciate that," he said primly. He groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. There was a faint scritch of the beginning of stubbles. "I need a cigarette," he sighed. "This was entirely too much excitement for this time of day..." He opened the front door and gestured outside. Crowley expect to be dismissed but instead a packet of fags was held up, clearly offering.  
"Smoking, Father?" Crowley smirked. "That seems a bit... vice-y."  
Father Angelface lit a cigarette and raised a brow pointedly, blowing out a puff of smoke.  
"I like to think it makes me a better priest," he sniffed.  
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"Smoking ciggies makes you a better priest?" he asked, disbelievingly.  
"How am I meant to guide my parishioners in coping with their vices if I've never had my own?" Angelface shot back. "Let alone if I haven't had a smoke all day..."  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"So what else are you up to, for the sake of better guiding your flock?" he asked, raising a brow.  
The priest snorted.  
"What's it look like?" he asked pointedly, folding an arm over the pouch of his stomach, hidden behind his beige and babyblue jumper vest.  
_It looks like you should be smoking that fag in my bed, after I give you a damn good seeing to_ , Crowley thought absentmindedly.  
"Didn't realise the Holy See took such a dim view of ugly grandpa sweaters," he said, rather than voicing his musings. "But perhaps they finally got something right."  
Angelface sputtered.  
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with my sweater! Marjie made this for me!" he snipped, clearly hurt.  
"Marjie? You mean the local scarlet woman?" Crowley asked lighting a fag of his own.  
That protective puppy dog face came up again.  
"There's nothing wrong with Marjie either!" he bit. "She's a lovely person!"  
Crowley let the smoke slowly billow out between his lips.  
"Everyone needs a pet project I suppose," he prodded, carefully watching the priest.  
"Marjie's not my 'project'! She's a very dear old friend and I think more of her than of most people," came the huffed out reply, pointed nose sticking up even more than usual. "If the Lord could dine with whores I fail to see why I can't," he muttered stubbornly against the filter of his cigarette.  
Crowley had no argument against that. Why argue when a person is not wrong. Instead he took a deep drag of his fag and just let silence settle between them.  
"Lapsed, yourself?" Angelface asked in a heinously English way, stifled and superficial-polite, after a minute.  
Crowley raised a brow.  
"Says who?" he asked defensively, belatedly realising that was not really an answer to the question.  
Angelface seemed happy to reply, however;  
"You call me 'Father' quite easily," he said, quirking a brow and smirking confidentially in the most outrageously ridiculous - and, in its silly self-insightlessness, rather attractive - way. "Most standard, uninvested city-slicker Anglicans have a wobbly go at 'vicar' upon first encounter. You also seem to prefer the Latin term for what most folks would call 'Hail Mary's'. Which could be a sign that you're simply an insufferable know-it-all, but only the former half to that seems true," he continued pointedly, superiorly puffing out smoke. Then after a moment of thought, he huffed a quiet, sheepish laugh. "That, and your... disdain seems so... heart-felt. There's clearly some history there..." He cleared his throat and looked away somewhat awkwardly.  
Crowley pursed his lips.  
"So what if I am? Lapsed."  
Angelface looked up.  
"Oh, nothing, nothing at all," he said quickly, holding up a placating hand, fag pinched between two fingers. After a moment of thought he added; "Though I suppose, in a professional capacity, I ought to let you know that should you feel the desire to return to Christ and his Church, my door is open," he said politely, nodding gently.  
Crowley snorted.  
"And in an unprofessional capacity?" he asked in a deliberately husky voice, leaning against the wall and pushing his hip out to one side, as far as it would go. A poor stupid man was allowed to at least pretend the off-chance existed, right?  
Father Angelface most definitely blushed slightly and looked down at his hands, rolling his ciggie between his fingers.  
"In an unprofessional capacity, I'm going to suggest that you go home, so I can finish my chapter of Sherlock Holmes, and get to bed on time for once," he said, tone benignly pointed. "Once you've finished your smoke," he added, holding out a pocket ashtray.  
Crowley took one last, long drag of his fag and squashed the butt into the ashtray.  
"'Night then, Father Angelface," he said lightly.  
The priest froze and blinked owlishly.  
"A-angelf -" He looked flustered for a second, then his expression changed to one that had had quite enough of Crowley's silly-buggers. He snapped his ashtray shut. "My name is _Aziraphale,_ " he said firmly, straightening his posture and pulling on his sweater.  
"That's the ticket!" Crowley said merrily, clicking his fingers.  
Angelface huffed and shook his head.  
"Goodnight, Mr Crowley."  
Crowley was about to protest the use of 'Mr' and also make some gripe or other about the way the wind had gone a little colder and almost a little sticky. Then the clouds, that had hung heavy and dark all afternoon, finally gave up and let the floodgates open with the fury of a highly-strung hotel shower.  
Crowley's mouth hung open in dismay as he realised he was walking home through the downpour but then a 'flump' could be heard, and a tartan umbrella unfolded itself over his head, although he was technically still sheltered by the small awning above the front door.  
Angelface smiled somewhat tightly at him, holding the umbrella out.  
"Seems like you'll be needing this," he said. "Just return it whenever."  
Crowley took the umbrella. He considered making a quip about how that made for a fine excuse for another chance to talk Crowley back into the pen, but decided not to. Father Angelface looked entirely too fluffy and genuine as he stood there, hands clasped on his belly and as cynical as Crowley was, he had so far only been surprised by the priest.   
"Cheers," he said. "Sleep well, Angelface." Then he turned and quickly staggered out into the rain, trying to avoid the rapidly forming puddles.  
He faintly heard the priest calling through the torrent after him;  
"It's _Aziraphale_!"  
_Aziraphale..._ _Father Aziraphale, who needs a fag before he can deal with people, befriends prostitutes and encourages abortions on the sly..._  
Crowley promised himself to actually remember that name from now on. Even if he doubted he would be using it.


	6. Chapter 6

_Wednesday 17th May_

Crowley was minding his own business out back, fiddling with a funeral wreath when the doorbell rang and the best news in the village walked in.  
"Mr Crowley!"  
"Father Angelface," Crowley remarked calmly, not leaving his work table but possibly arching his back a little, just to make some sort of point. He had only had one or two brief run-ins with the priest since their little chat at the rectory a fortnight ago, but Crowley was finding himself terribly curious about the posh little teddybear-man with his snooty mannerisms. He seemed to vacillate back and forth between wanting to embrace the world and the people in it with a message of good spirits and kindness - and the urge to lock the door, unplug the phone and get tight in the face of the sheer idiocy of the human race. With his current MO, consisting of gently annoying the priest whenever possible, Crowley was trying to pry at the hairline cracks in the polite, all-English varnish to see more of the latter. As a price paid for this new hobby of his, he had let himself be talked into doing the damned flowers for the church. Because apparently nothing short of raging hatred was enough to withstand the priest's puppy eyes.   
"It's Aziraph - never mind." Aziraphale had to stop himself from smirking. This stupid game Crowley kept playing of continuously refusing to remember his name was not charming, damn it! With an internal huff he shook himself out and instead leaned conspiratorially against the counter on one elbow. "You wouldn't happen to know something about the defacing of the village welcome sign, would you now?" he asked in a low voice, narrowing his eyes and raising an eyebrow.  
Crowley had been about to wander off to grab his fags from his jacket and suggest they go for a smoke break in the back yard, but stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned on his heels to finally face Aziraphale and let a big shit-eating grin rip.  
"What makes you think I do?" he crowed. Aziraphale casually considered his own neatly trimmed nails, lips pursed.  
"Nothing in particular," he shrugged.  
Crowley watched him for a second then picked up where he had left off with the funeral wreath and definitely ignoring the coy look Aziraphale was giving him.  
"So why are you here?" he asked. "If not to accuse me of wrong-doings."  
"I thought I'd get some lilac branches," Aziraphale said absentmindedly, carefully prodding at the aloe plant Anathema had finally yielded and brought in, giving Crowley a long sideways glance.  
Crowley let the boring-ass wreath be and sauntered into the front room of the shop to start plucking out lilac branches from a bucket on the floor instead.  
"How many?"  
"Just 20 quids worth or so," Aziraphale sniffed, pushing off the counter and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clasped in front of him.  
Crowley could not keep a small smile off his face, eyeing the fussy blond from behind his dark glasses.  
"So you have no idea about the sign then?" Aziraphale asked innocently, looking around the shop.  
Crowley had wrestled his grin into a smile, but now it broke free of its restraints.  
"Calling me a liar, Father?" he purred lightly as he wrapped the branches in paper.  
Aziraphale gave him the deadest of deadpan looks Crowley had ever seen, and raised a poignant brow.  
"I would never dare," he said flatly. Crowley watched his jaw clench around a smile. For a moment they stared each other down across the counter.  
"Your lilacs, my good priest," Crowley then conceded, holding out the wrapped branches. "On the house," he added before Aziraphale could reach for his wallet.  
"That's very kind..." Aziraphale said in a voice that indicated he trusted the bouquet to have a rabid squirrel hidden within.  
"Just contributing to my new local community," Crowley said, flashing his biggest smile possible, knowing full-well it was neither his most winning, convincing or innocent.  
"Perhaps you could also contribute by cleaning up your childish mess," Aziraphale noted with a 'come on now, really' sorta pout that Crowley wanted to run a thumb over, just to test the give of those lips...  
"I would gladly, if I knew what you were talking about," he smirked.  
"Changing 'Tadfield' to 'Sadfield'. Really now." Aziraphale tutted, before turning towards the door.  
"That is just horrendous! What a terrible pun!" Crowley agreed. "Someone really ought to wash off that offensively bad joke."  
"Tonight," Aziraphale continued, more sternly, hand on the handle.  
Crowley snickered.  
"Whatever you say, Father," he muttered, as Aziraphale left the shop with one last long look at him.

Aziraphale was enjoying his last cup of tea for the day - or he would be running back and forth between his bed and the bathroom all night - and trying to write a sermon that, really, he should have finished days ago, when there was knock on the door. He hurriedly went to answer it, expecting some sort of emergency. Who would come knocking on his door at this time of night, if not for -  
"Mr Crowley?"  
Crowley spun comically on the spot.  
"Nope, pretty sure it's just me, no misters 'round. Just dear lil' me and a good French mate of mine, who could use a few godly words," he said brightly, holding up a bottle of red. "May I?" he continued already pushing past Aziraphale.  
"I'm... I'm sorry, but why are you here?" Aziraphale asked, following Crowley into the sitting room.  
"You said "tonight", so here you have me!" Crowley said brightly. "And a bottle. Just to prove I'm not entirely without propriety."  
Most attractive man in the parish rolling up to the rectory at a quarter past 8, bearing wine, was probably the polar opposite of propriety, Aziraphale thought, somewhat annoyed, as Crowley put the bottle down on the coffee table next to the notes for tomorrows sermon.  
"Whassat, they have you writing sentences?" he asked peeking at the open notebook. "What'd you do?" he chuckled.  
"It's for tomorrow." Aziraphale said, slightly miffed. He sidled over and pilfered the wine from the table. One look at the label had him considerably less annoyed to be interrupted though.  
"Anything striking your fancy, Father?" Crowley asked suddenly rather close to Aziraphale's ear, making him jump.  
"Ah! Oh, I dare say yes. But... isn't it a bit late for this, now?" he asked nervously.  
"I'd whip out glasses but I don't know where to look," Crowley fished innocently, ignoring the protestations. Aziraphale gave him a performative deadpan look - oh, Crowley would have to put a notch in his belt every time he earned himself one of those, they were surely the highest praise any person aiming to be innocently irritating could hope for - thrusting the bottle at Crowley and tottered off to the opposite corner of the room, disappearing through a door there. Crowley heard the distinct sound of a drawer full of kitchen utensils being rifled through and a cupboard opening and closing.  
"Your bottle, your cork, your problem, dear boy," Aziraphale said tossing Crowley a corkscrew before settling two wine glasses on the coffee table.  
'Dear boy', now, was it? _Oh, pull yourself together Crowley, the man is a priest, you are just pulling your own leg at this point, get a grip._  
Aziraphale packed up his notebook and plopped himself down in the chair he had vacated a few minutes earlier while Crowley made swift work of the wine cork.  
"Might wanna let that breathe for a second," he said, setting the bottle down on the table and folding up the cork screw.  
Aziraphale smiled, somewhat nervously. This was... awkward. Particularly due to the tummy ache he had apparently just worked up.  
"So..." he started as Crowley elegantly shrugged off his blazer and draped it over one arm of the sofa before equally as elegantly draping himself over the other. "The uh... the sign?" That was a good topic. It was what had started this mess in the first place.  
"What about the sign?" Crowley asked, melting nonchalantly into the sofa and crossing one ankle over the opposing knee, leaning back like it was his home, not Aziraphale's.  
"Has the incorrigible rascal who damaged it cleaned up after himself?" Aziraphale asked, very actively not letting his eyes linger on the hair peeking out of Crowley's low-cut t-shirt neck.  
Crowley smirked. He unfolded himself and leant forward, snatching the wine and a glass.  
"You'll just have to wait 'till daylight to find out, won't you?" he cackled, pouring a glass and holding it out towards Aziraphale who took it and sniffed the contents. The wine smelled very promising indeed, which in turn was probably going to be a bit of a problem.  
"So... What brings you here?" he asked carefully.  
"Like I said, you invited me," Crowley said casually pouring himself a glass of wine and raising it. "Chin-chin."  
Aziraphale huffed slightly and took a sip of his wine. Oh, that really was good. Thank goodness Crowley had only brought one bottle.  
"You know perfectly well that I didn't," he said.  
"Would you like me and Frenchie to go away?" Crowley offered smoothly, pointing at the bottle.  
Aziraphale pursed his lips.  
"Your friend can stay," he said primly, before taking another sip.  
Crowley smiled and snuggled deeper into the sofa.  
"Nice... books," he said after looking around the room while sipping his own wine.  
Aziraphale followed his gaze, as if he had no idea what his own living room looked like.  
"I, erh... I collect them," he offered as Crowley kept peering about, gulping down wine. "I quite like reading." He cringed at how much he sounded like the presentation he had given to his new classmates when he had started secondary.  
"S'alright to have a hobby, I s'pose," Crowley said flatly.  
Aziraphale willed his hands to not shake. He was a grown man. School was a long time ago and Crowley could dress like James Dean all he wanted, he was not one of the boys in the back row of the classroom who snickered whenever Aziraphale spoke up in class, he was a guest in Aziraphale's home -  
"Something wrong?" Crowley's calm drawl interrupted Aziraphale's self-reassurance.  
"No. No, everything's quite fine, I'm just a bit tired," Aziraphale said quickly. "It's been a long day."  
Crowley snorted.  
"Tell me about it," he said.  
"Ah, yes, you had funeral order, didn't you?," Aziraphale offered. That seemed like a safe and polite topic to commiserate over. "Wasn't one of mine, mind, but all the same... I've had two meetings today with young couples looking to tie the knot. One of them is a local lad marrying a protestant girl he picked up in Newcastle."  
Crowley raised his brows.  
"Problem?" he asked expectantly.  
"Apart from understanding what she's saying, no, not at all, just the formalities to sort," Aziraphale said, into his glass, waving a dismissive hand. "I took the liberty of pointing both couples in your general direction," he noted.  
"Oh?"  
"Not much of a risk that you'll fall through when youcan see the church from your shop, is there?" Aziraphale said. "Urgh, I had the most ghastly experience two years ago. The florist flaked. On the day. There was nothing that could be done. It wasn't even a complicated order, but they just forgot, can you believe it??" It still irked him a bit, that sort of carelessness when other people's big day was concerned.  
Crowley winced.  
"Did the bride flip?"  
"Cried a bucket and a half," Aziraphale said with a shudder. "Threatened to call it all off, it was a complete nightmare." He rolled his eyes and sighed.  
Crowley lolled his head to one side and cocked a brow.  
"By all means keep sending business my way," he cooed. "I promise to actually show up with the goods. Scouts honour."  
Aziraphale smiled, politely inquisitive.  
"You were a scout?" he asked.  
Crowley snorted a laugh.  
"No, I bloody well wasn't, it's a figure of speech."  
Aziraphale pouted slightly.  
"Well, you never know," he huffed. "Everyone has a seedy past," he added, hesitantly jokingly.  
"They sure do, but I promise you, mine's a lot seedier than short trousers and pissing in the woods," Crowley smirked. "What's yours?" he asked.  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"What's my what?"  
"Seedy past," Crowley purred, quaffing most of his wine. "I'm told everyone's got one," he said sagely.  
The change in Aziraphale's demeanor was abrupt. He squirmed slightly in his seat and took a long sip of his wine. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he said evasively.  
"Oh, so it's only your presents that's a bit mussed around the edges, then?" Crowley cackled, resting his cheek in his hand. Aziraphale's present was currently eyeing the view presented by Crowley's shirt falling away from his chest as he leant slightly forward, so you could say that his present was being just a little sordid, at least.  
"Yes, well... They say you soften with age," he muttered, swallowing hard.  
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Crowley shot back promptly. Aziraphale frowned.  
"Sorry to - Oh. Oh, really now!" He felt his cheeks burn. That inveterate, redheaded horror -!  
Crowley laughed and topped his glass up. He held out the bottle in offer, but Aziraphale was too busy being equal parts miffed and horrified and waved him off.  
"So what is your past then?" Crowley asked, leaning back and stretching out his legs.  
Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously.  
"Why do you ask?"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Just wondering how a posh little prat full of seemingly reasonable opinions ends up peddling 'sorry or burn' bollocks from a pulpit, is all," he said.  
Aziraphale bit his lip in a horrendously cute way, prompting Crowley to gulp down another large mouthful of wine, just to give himself something else think of.  
"Well, I used to want to be a bookseller. When I was younger," he answered after a long moment.  
Crowley cocked is head, waiting for the actual answer.  
"Aw, don't leave me hanging like that!" he goaded. "G'won! I won't laugh."  
Aziraphale shot him a look like he was pretty sure that Crowley would indeed laugh, but sighed and continued;  
"For a while I thought that perhaps owning a bookshop might be nice," he said. "Perhaps an antiquarian one." Hardly a scandalous answer. Kind of the opposite really, Crowley thought.  
"Kinda looks like you actually do have a bookshop," he noted, letting his eyes roam about the room once more.  
Aziraphale chuckled lightly, almost a bit relieved.  
"So people keep saying!" he noted, taking another sip of wine. "But I don't think I could bear to actually part with any of these." He leaned in, a slightly haunted look in his eyes. "I lent 'Lady Chatterly's Lover" to Marjie three years ago and I knew she would be ever so careful with it, but I just..." He made a fussy little noise and his free hand fluttered about.  
Crowley snorted. "You have issues," he noted into his glass before emptying it.  
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air.  
"I just take very good care of my things," he said primly.  
"So that's why you became a priest then?" Crowley asked. "'Cos you realised a bookseller would have to sell books?"  
Aziraphale's sulky little pout fell. Crowley regretted asking, it had been an adorable pout and he did not quite like the way Aziraphale's muddy-blue eyes seemed to zone out.  
"I, uh... One of the priests at my secondary school did a talk one time. About what it was like, being a priest. I just thought it sounded... appealing," Aziraphale muttered. "It seemed like a good... a good fit for someone like me."  
"Everyone's singing your praises, so I guess it was," Crowley said slowly after a beat.  
Aziraphale snorted a bitter laugh. "Everyone but the bishop," he groaned. "Got a sternly worded email from him today... He's not happy about the way I run my parish council." He tutted miffedly. "Just because our treasurer isn't actually Catholic. He's our actual real-life accountant, though! Seems easier to just... let him do the explaining since he's doing the numbers anyway. I'll just have to keep arguing my case, I guess..." He sighed deeply and the vexed look left his face in favour of misery. "And we've also had yet another application turned down for a grant towards fixing the roof because I guess a small village church isn't a diocese top priority..."  
You could have cut the bitter sneer in his voice, at the end of that sentence, with... something not very sharp at all. Crowley made a mental note to prod some more at that another time, but right now Aziraphale was biting down on one of his knuckles and looking dreadfully blue and that just would not do.  
"What roof?" Crowley asked.  
"The church," Aziraphale said unhappily. "It's leaky..."  
"And expensive to fix?" Crowley inquired.  
Aziraphale shuddered.  
"Rather. Increasingly so, the longer it stays damaged. The rain is starting get to the rafters underneath. The roof is lead, dating back to the late 18th century and the building itself is listed as 'of particular interest'... So the roofing needs to be tip-top and to the letter or Historic England will be up my jumper..." He drained his glass and put it down. "And we obviously need a specialist for that..." He slumped into the chair. "And then there's the timber and that needs to be made the proper way too to match the rest of the building."  
"And the diocese won't pay for that?" Crowley asked, refilling his glass again. "Don't they have a duty to pay for it if the building's historic?"  
Aziraphale's hands wrung themselves.  
"We're a fairly large diocese," he said tiredly. "Lot's of old village churches that need repairing and, of course, Oxford, which is full of old historical sites. They've depleted the budget for that sort of thing for the next three years, so we're basically on our own. We've applied for money from a few different places, but none of them have had the means to pay for it all... Unfortunately we don't have any large businesses in the parish either, that we could've otherwise run crying to. So we're pretty much stuck with what little revenue the parish has on its own and the odd grant from different private societies..." He ran his hands tiredly over his face. "I'm sorry, this must be terribly uninteresting to listen to," he muttered.  
"Sounds like a bucket of crap to be caught up in," Crowley said sympathetically.  
Aziraphale sighed and nodded.  
"How much is it gonna cost?" Crowley asked.  
"Oh, let's not go there, my stomach can't take it..." Aziraphale moaned. "If you'll pardon the over-sharing," he added quickly.  
"How close are you to the goal?" Crowley kept prodding, because, apparently, he was now the sort of guy who was deeply and genuinely interested in people's random fundraising schemes. Or maybe he was just getting tipsy. He emptied his glass again.  
"About a third of the way?" Aziraphale asked more than replied, grimacing.  
"Can't you write to Rome or summat?" Crowley asked, helping himself to yet another refill, emptying the bottle. "Tell 'em one of their houses of the Lord is falling into disrepair."  
Aziraphale looked at him like he almost wanted to laugh but was sunken too deeply into hopelessness to manage it.  
"That sort of application would have to go through the Hierarchy and I doubt the bishop would agree to do it. Secondly, I would be dead and buried before the Holy See would finish processing it, their administration moves at an absolutely glacial speed." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "That was rude. Forget I said that," he muttered dejectedly.  
Crowley was all for some internal Church bitching, but he was definitely getting drunk and was feeling unusually charitable, so he let it go.  
"You look tired, Angelface," he noted.  
Aziraphale wanted to shoot him a stern look, but he feared it ended up more sort of coyly irritated.  
"I rather am, as it happens," he said. "Would you mind terribly if I were to throw you out?"  
Crowley drained the last of his wine and put himself upright.  
"As long as you open the door first," he said, arms outstretched, stumbling ever so slightly. "It was grand talking."  
Aziraphale got up and walked him to the door.  
"Was it?" he asked tiredly, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
Crowley struggled his way into his jacket and smirked.  
"Wasn't it?" he asked softly.  
Aziraphale blinked. Crowley was suddenly standing awfully close, looking down at him, face unreadable behind the dark glasses. Then Crowley reached out and rubbed his shoulder. The warmth of his palm through Aziraphale's shirt was terrifying in its soothingness.  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"Goodnight, Crowley," he said quickly, taking a step back.  
"You'll figure things out with the roof, Angelface," Crowley said sincerely. Yep, he was definitely halfway to potted. "Don't fret."  
"It's Aziraphale," Aziraphale sighed. "Try to find a way to remember it while you make your way home."  
Crowley snickered and sniffed.  
"Right. Goodnight then..." he said softly. "Aziraphale."  
Aziraphale had opened his mouth to return the parting phrase but froze. Before he could say anything Crowley had swaggered off into the darkness, absentmindedly waving a hand.  
"Ciao!"  
Aziraphale watched his slender form sway away, shoulder still slightly warm, wishing Crowley would have stuck to 'Angelface'... 'Aziraphale' sounded... awfully complicated rolling off those smirking, too-red lips.  
He patted back inside and slumped down on the sofa, ignoring his long-since cold tea. Why in the world had Crowley shown up like that, with wine, inviting himself in? Sure, they had become politely friendly after their... funny little run-in. But chatting about the weather and having wine on a random Wednesday night seemed like two very different things...  
Aziraphale desperately wrung his hands.  
He should have sent Crowley away. This set an awkward precedent. Would Crowley be expecting more evenings like this? Did he think that - Had he been trying to - Aziraphale's rampant thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. Had Crowley - _Crowley_ , tall, slender, handsome, childishly rebellious - been trying to get Aziraphale drunk? Aziraphale tried his best to chuckle at his own silliness. Of course, _Crowley_ had in no way been looking at _Aziraphale_.  
 _And just as well, you're a priest, all the easier to avoid temptation if you don't meet it_.  
Aziraphale got up, still ignoring the abandoned tea cup and trudged upstairs.  
 _No_ , he thought as he brushed his teeth. _Crowley wasn't trying anything... salacious. He just enjoys teasing you. You don't even know if he's... His beef with the Church could be over any_ _number of things._  
Yes, that had to be it. Just teasing. Or perhaps Crowley just liked... talking with Aziraphale? He had seemed genuinely interested in the financial issues regarding the roof. Although, to be fair that could just have been the wine. Aziraphale could appreciate a man who, if he absolutely had to have five glasses of wine in quick succession, could at least hold his drink and not turn into a chortling mess, but all the same, Crowley had still knocked back a fair few.  
Aziraphale changed into his pajamas and went to bed. He would, he decided, as he folded his hands for one last prayer before going to sleep, have to swing by the flower shop tomorrow and check on Crowley. Just to see how he was holding up after the numerous glasses of wine.  
That would only be polite.  
Aziraphale was nothing if not a polite sort of fellow.  
"Confiteor Deor..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it hasn't made itself clear, I'm my own beta so please bear with any spelling or editing mistakes


	7. Chapter 7

_Thursday 18th May_ **  
  
******

"You look unwell, old boy?"  
Crowley groaned. He had woken up with a mouth that tasted like he had forgotten to have a drink of water in between getting half-tight on wine and going to bed, and a mind that had been reeling with all things Aziraphale; the smell in his house, - old books and tea and the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke - whatever the Hell that thing with the bishop had been, - Crowley would need to hear more about that, he wanted the _dirt_ on this! - and the whole ordeal with why Aziraphale was even a priest in the first place - Crowley was, at this point, willing to put good money on an answer for that. Which was potentially _terribly_ interesting. Or it would have been, if he had not been hungover and at work while Aziraphale was beaming at him, fresh as a daisy.   
"I must be getting weak..." Crowley groaned. "Why are you so... fresh-like?"  
"One glass is hardly enough to build a hangover on," Aziraphale sniffed.   
Crowley stared.  
"You only had one - but the bottle was..? Did you leave me to drink an entire bottle by myself??" he sputtered.  
"You didn't seem to mind. It really was a good vintage too," Aziraphale said pleasantly.   
"Either I need to sign up with the AA or you're an absolute monster..!" Crowley groused, slumping against the counter.   
"I needed to get up early! 5:30, I hadn't the time for a hangover!" Aziraphale protested.  
"And I did?!" Crowley howled. "I've been hanging on three fags and a packet Boots' Recovery all morning!"  
"That's what over-indulgence will get you. That and not eating breakfast," Aziraphale tutted, once again fiddling with the aloe plant.  
"You did this in purpose!" Crowley said accusatorially.   
"And whether or not I feel guilty will depend entirely on what I find when I go take a look at that sign," Aziraphale shot back aloofly, gently prodding the tip of his finger against the prong at the end of a leaf.  
"Well. Fire up your Catholic guilt, you bastard, it's clean as a whistle -!" Crowley sneered.  
Their bickering was interrupted by the door opening. It was Marjorie, shopping tote in hand.  
Crowley straightened.   
"Ah! The highlight of my week!" he crooned. He reached behind the counter, hangover seemingly forgotten, and produced a bucket of three brightly pink bouquets. "Your flowers, my good lady of the night," he all but purred.  
Marjorie raised a brow.  
"I didn't order anything!" she said with confusion as she traipsed closer.  
"And I didn't have anything better to do with my time," Crowley said, leaning against the counter and running a hand through his hair, mussing it fashionably. "so I thought I'd treat my fave customer to a little something. No extra charge, of course!" Marjorie had indeed taken to coming on the regular, rarely even buying anything, and unlike the other country bumpkins, she was actually good for a proper human conversation about normal things. It turned out she had been born in the same part of South London as Crowley had lived in during his 'young dumb and broke' years. By bribing her with a latté from his capsule brewer upstairs Crowley had even managed to snoop a little into the whole situation with that weird Shedwall character who lived next door to her, after catching the grubby old man yelling 'away with ye, harlot!' at her one morning and watching Marjorie turn bright pink and giggle merrily at him.  
"You're up to something, you horrible boy," Marjorie cooed, fluttering her lashes. Aziraphale just stood in the background, frankly a bit miffed as Marjorie and Crowley both seemed to have forgotten he was even there in the first place.   
Crowley's smile could have melted butter.  
"Busted," he confessed, biting his lip cutely. "I figured that a bit of product placement might be a sound business move - all those husbands who come to see you and need their guilty conscience silenced... Might decide to swing by and bring home flowers, if sufficiently inspired."  
Marjorie gasped with mock indignation.  
"Rarely have I felt so used!" she huffed dramatically, clutching her long bead necklaces. She shot the flowers another look. "But I am nothing if not easily persuaded, you naughty thing," she added sneakily. She reached across and wiped a nonexistent smudge off Crowley's cheek. "And these really are lovely, I must say."  
"You inspire me," Crowley crowed with a velvety smirk, resting his weight against his palms on the counter and arching his back.  
Aziraphale had half a mind to just turn on his heel and leave. He felt entirely like chopped liver, ignored as he was.  
After a lengthy deliberation of what to get - and deciding on getting all three, because why not? - Marjorie paid and swanned out after blowing a kiss at Crowley who pretended to catch it and slip it into his breast pocket.  
Aziraphale tried his best, he did, honestly, but a snort still escaped him once the door had closed behind Marjorie. Crowley looked up from where he had sagged against the counter, bravado gone, hangover back. The show was over, it was only Aziraphale left to watch.  
"Wha' was that?"  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"You really are shameless," he said disdainfully.  
Crowley innocently raised his brows.  
"Look how happy it makes her!" he protested with a grin. "Closest thing the old gal gets to flirting is that old weirdo who lives next door to her, awkwardly telling her to go away. A sin and a shame it is, she's delightful!"  
Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back and sniffed derisively. Crowley did, however, raise a fair point.  
"Someday I'll figure out what she sees in the sergeant," Aziraphale said quizzically. "But today is not that day..."  
"I've given up," Crowley announced unenthusiastically, resting his forehead against the counter. "Did you want something, or are you just here to enjoy the fruits of your labour last night?"  
Aziraphale wished that Crowley would make just a little bit of an effort for him too. And then he wished that he had not wished that.  
"Oh, hm, no, not really, just..."  
"Procrastinating? Shirking your clerical duties?" Crowley teased.  
"Putting off a bit of emailing, is all..." Aziraphale said, once again prodding at the aloe plant on the counter. "I need to write to the bishop... Nothing actually important..."  
Crowley smirked.  
"Reporting to the higher-ups isn't important?"  
"My job is to care for my parishioners, not... correspond with that - " Aziraphale cut himself off with a huff.  
Crowley straightened with a tired groan.  
"What is it with you and the bishop?" he asked curiously.   
"Never you mind!" Aziraphale snapped. "None of your business!" He looked around the room but found nothing to occupy himself with. He tutted irritatedly. "I might as well just go back and get it over with," he sulked. He did not need to let that lapsed menace in on internal Church... things.   
"You can tell me," Crowley said, palms open and forward-facing. "Still not a snitch. Wanna go hide in the yard and have a fag?"   
Aziraphale fussed and wrung his hands.  
"Oh..! Alright..." He begrudgingly trudged after Crowley into the small yard. He could not quite hold back a gasp at the sight of the car parked there. "Oh, goodness! Is this yours??"   
Crowley smirked. He fished his fags out of his pocket and held one out towards Aziraphale.  
"Yep. That's my baby. 1933 body, fully modernised insides. Pretty, no?"  
Aziraphale nodded, absentmindedly accepting the smoke while looking over the Bentley.   
"So that's you people have been seeing tearing down the small quiet country roads like a madman lately," he noted tersely.   
Crowley snickered.  
"Potentially," he said, flicking on his lighter.  
Aziraphale kept looking at the car while sticking the end of the ciggy into the flame.   
"You ought to be more careful with your driving," he said. "Be a shame to wreck such a nice car."  
Crowley fully caught onto the fact that no concern for his personal well-being was being expressed. He blew out a puff of smoke and smirked to himself. Okay, so maybe Aziraphale was not the kind of bastard Crowley had expected, but he was definitely still a bastard.  
"So," he said, sidling up to Aziraphale and halfway cornering him, one hand on the door frame. "what's up with you and the bishop?   
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.  
"What makes you think anything is 'up'?" he asked.   
Aziraphale was hardly what Crowley would call a good liar, but he sure had that Churchly refusal to acknowledge anything, he did not like, down to a tee.   
"You don't exactly seem like you're running the campaign to get him sanctified," Crowley noted casually, tapping ash off his fag. He steadily met Aziraphale's gaze as the blond whipped his head around.   
"I..." He hemmed and hawed for a second then almost growled with annoyance. "Fine. Shall I describe the bishop to you?" he asked reluctantly.  
"I'm on the edge of my seat," Crowley purred, taking a drag on his smoke.  
"The bishop is the sorta fellow who'll have dinner out and not finish with a pudding," Aziraphale said tightly. "And will then really loudly tell anyone who'll hear, how excited he is about it."  
Crowley blinked, then snorted with laughter, smoke billowing out his nostrils.  
"Right. Yeah. Ok."   
Aziraphale sulked.  
"You know what I mean!" he snipped.  
Crowley nodded.  
"I do, I do. We have a word for people like that where I'm from."  
Aziraphale's brows went up.  
"Oh?"  
"Nobhead."  
Aziraphale sputtered.  
"Crowley! That's the bishop -!"  
"Who's a nobhead," Crowley countered calmly.   
"It's still my bishop!" Aziraphale hissed as if he was scared the bin might be bugged. Crowley opened his mouth but Aziraphale pointed at him sternly. "And don't you say it!"  
Crowley relented with a snicker, holding up his hands.  
Aziraphale glowered at him for another long moment then cleared his throat.  
"How's business coming along?" he asked. "Getting properly stuck in there?"  
Crowley nodded.  
"Yeah, it's getting there I guess."  
Aziraphale smiled.  
"Wonderful! It's all counting towards those walls!"  
Crowley stopped dead in his tracks and sighed internally. For crying out loud...  
"Listen here, my walls -"  
"Wedding season is coming up too," Aziraphale continued reassuringly. "We're sort of... picturesquely located, you could say, so they all come flocking. I already have no less than 13 couples booked from June 'til September and you never know if I end up taking pity on any late-comers. I was, um... I was thinking that I would be referring them to you, for the flower arrangements. If you wanted, of course."  
What Crowley really wanted was to explain that he quite _liked_ his raw walls, but yeah, guaranteed business sounded pretty good, he supposed.  
"Yeah, sure, I like money," he said.   
Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically.  
"Excellent! I'll have Deidre write your details on the info sheet I always hand out. I didn't like to push that sort of commitments on you without asking... especially since... Yes, well, all of that."  
"It's good of you to think of me," Crowley rumbled, pushing out a hip. It got him what he wanted; Aziraphale's cheek turned visibly pink and he ducked his head.   
"Yes... uh..." He cleared his throat and stubbed out his smoke in his pocket ashtray. "I really should get back... to work. Deidre will be wondering where I am."  
Crowley hummed and ditched his own fag butt in the pot of sand he had put out for the same purpose.   
"Not very good at skiving off, are you?" he snickered. "You've gone 20 minutes at the most."  
"I have work to do," Aziraphale admonished as they strolled back to the front of the shop. "I just... needed to stretch my legs a little."  
Crowley rested his arse against the edge of the counter and stuck his thumbs in his pockets.   
"Feel free to swing by anytime you fancy a break from your duties," he purred.   
Aziraphale swallowed and nodded weakly.  
"Yes, well... I mustn't make a habit of it," he muttered. "Have a nice day, dear boy... Mind how you go."  
Crowley could have sworn the priest gave him a look up and down before turning around and almost walking into the glass pane of the door.  
"Good luck with the email to the bishop," Crowley called after him with a smirk as the priest scurried off.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't honest Prior Phillip of Kingsbridge." Crowley intoned, abandoning the braid his left hand had autonomously been working on. He had been quietly nursing a pint at the pub, doing a spot of people-watching, after finishing his dinner and Aziraphale had just walked in through the door.  
Aziraphale startled slightly and turned.  
"Oh. Crowley. Good evening," he said a bit awkwardly.   
Crowley gestured sweepingly at the chair across from him.   
After surveying the room, and apparently finding no excuse to not take up the offer, Aziraphale plopped himself into the seat with a polite smile.  
"So you've read Ken Follett then?" he said with practiced pleasantness.  
Crowley made a noise and wrinkled his nose.  
"Eh, I revisited the TV series last weekend. Matthew MacWhatever-it-is could make me confess to anything," he chuckled with a waggle of his brows.  
Aziraphale was unfamiliar with the man and had always made a point of steering clear of television adaptions.  
"I see," he replied in a somewhat clipped tone. This was hardly the literary discussion he had momentarily hoped for. That, and the comparison to a monk with bishop-related issues was just rubbing things in, really.  
Crowley seemed unaffected.  
"Yeah, I don't read books," he said casually fiddling with his phone with the air of a teenager who was much too cool for school. "Ragingly dyslexic, me," he sniffed.  
Aziraphale winced internally. Someday he was going to stop judging people for their reading habits, honestly! Perhaps it was something he should consider giving up for Lent next year...  
"Ah, well... That can't really be helped, I suppose," he offered.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Wish someone would've told that to that angry old fuck of a priest at the home who tried to teach me English in secondary," he sneered, sipping his pint. Or any of his primary teachers. Or his parents...  
Aziraphale carefully considered Crowley's face. The way his eyes crinkled when he scowled.  
"That was a long time ago", he tried. "Attitudes towards such things has changed. Dyslexia, I mea -"  
Crowley sputtered and coughed, nearly choking on his beer.  
"A LONG TIME AGO!?" he cried with outrage, startling both Aziraphale and half the people in the pub. "I'm 36 you know!" Crowley continued, offence still dripping off every syllable but laughter bubbling to the surface towards the end of the sentence.  
Aziraphale stared. Then a loud chortle escaped him despite his best efforts.  
Crowley's face was a rictus of indignation.  
"The Hell are you laughing at," he huffed, clearly trying to hold down his own amusement.  
"36, my ordained backside," Aziraphale giggled.  
Crowley glared but even the long sip he took of his pint could not hide the tug at the corners of his mouth.   
"What about your backside?" he asked casually as he put down his beer.  
Aziraphale felt his cheeks turn bright red.  
"Wha... what about it?" he asked. Oh, that was a stupid retort. Damn this man...  
"What indeed," Crowley purred darkly.  
"Good evening gentlemen!"   
Aziraphale sagged with relief. Marjorie had struck down on Crowley, hands on his shoulders like the claws of a hawk on its prey, Anathema in tow.  
"Hello, ladies!" Aziraphale said loudly. "Poker time, then?"  
"If Crowley doesn't mind the invasion?" Marjorie asked, her fingers lightly rubbing at Crowley's shoulders.  
"You can invade me anytime you like, doll," Crowley drawled smoothly, making Aziraphale scoff internally. Really, those two...   
He quietly sulked while Anathema sat down to his right and Marjorie to his left. The latter produced a deck of cards with a flourish.  
"So," Marjorie nudged Crowley with her elbow as she began shuffling the cards. "how about you, dearie? Your poker face any good?"  
Aziraphale wanted to protest, he needed Crowley to go away right now while he got himself sorted, but it seemed he was out of luck.  
"This face is good for only two things, and lying is one of them," Crowley snickered.   
Anathema pulled a grimace and swatted at him and Marjorie howled with delighted outrage. Aziraphale tried not to picture what else Crowley's face might be good for. This of course had the opposite effect.   
_Oh, bother...   
_ "I haven't got any cash though," Crowley noted while he fished out out a hair tie and pulled his auburn waves back in an artfully messy bun with loose strands hanging around his face. Aziraphale's eyes caught on a braid that was cheekily peering out of the tied-up mop of red. It was oddly... cute as it sat there. Random and unplanned, unlike the rest of Crowley's appearance.  
 _Double bother...  
_ "Oh, no problem, I always carry a ton," Aziraphale's mouth said, entirely without permission while his hand joined the caper and pulled out a random handful of coins and pushed them towards Crowley.  
"I'll pay you back," Crowley promised, a long slender finger darting elegantly across the coins, counting them.   
"Oh, don't worry about that. We always bring exactly five quid in as small coins as possible and then everyone gets their loose change back afterwards," Marjorie explained, pulling out her own jangling bag. "Otherwise I'd be a very rich little lady indeed at this stage," she giggled.   
"Lovely to see you allowing yourself a break from the disgruntled husbands of Oxfordshire, pet," Crowley said conversationally as Marjorie started handing out cards, startling Aziraphale out of his resumed staring at the braid.  
"Excuse you!" Anathema sputtered.  
"Ach, we've all been young once!" Crowley said with a wave. He eyed Anathema for a second. "Or at least some of us have..." he added tersely. "No harm done, just 'cos Marjie's still keeping."  
Marjorie sighed, sorting through her hand.  
"I may be keeping, but I'm not sure about my knees," she noted, shaking her head.   
Crowley made a noise of regret.  
"Your knees and my hips should start a support group for joints that didn't take to that life," he said absentmindedly, turning a card upside-down.   
Aziraphale chocked slightly on air and bit his tongue but Marjorie made a noise of triumph.  
"I knew it!" she crowed. "Could tell from a mile away! Wot with the shop I don't suppose you're at it anymore though?"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Was a while back. It started out as an injury after I fell off the pole one night and when I couldn't dance and still needed money... I didn't really give the old pal a chance to properly heal."  
Aziraphale had half a mind to just fold and leave for the night. Anathema had been quiet too but now she piped up;  
"Fell off the pole? You used to strip?"  
Crowley nodded emphatically, taking one last drag of his pint and ditching the half-empty glass on the empty neighbouring table.  
"Oh yes."  
Aziraphale had just about chewed a chunk out of his tongue at this point.  
Marjorie hummed in thought.  
"Fancy that..." she snickered.  
Crowley smirked.  
"Yes, I do believe you do, Marjie -!"  
"Gag! Cut it out you two, you're making poor Father A all flustered!" Anathema laughed.  
"I am not -! flustered..." Aziraphale stammered.  
Marjorie laughed and apologised but Crowley's gaze felt a little too knowing as he leaned back in his chair and lolled his head to one side, watching Aziraphale carefully. Aziraphale squirmed and cleared his throat.  
"So, are we going to play poker then?" he asked. "I'd like two cards, please."  
"Do as you like, Father, you're dealer," Anathema said, nodding at the remainder of the deck that Marjorie had placed on the table in front of Aziraphale.  
"Oh. Oh, yes, right..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, this story starts to earn its rating :p

The only thing that saved Aziraphale from getting utterly fleeced of everything he owned, including his watch and his car and the clothes he was wearing, was the five quid-rule. He ended up broke after just 4 short rounds, while the merry chatter about Crowley's past life as an exotic dancer continued. His mind was everywhere but in the game - or, really, truth be told, it was somewhere about 5 inches past the game, just across the table. On Crowley. Who in fairness did play a decent game of poker, at one point beating Anathema in a long drawn-out game of chicken, with a legendary winning hand consisting of a high card of 3 of diamonds, leading to Anathema declaring 'the slaughter to be over' at a quarter past nine.  
"Actually, Father A, I don't mean to nag, but my 'Encyclopedia of Angels'?" Anathema asked as they were packing up, Crowley and Marjorie counting out everyone's money. "Were you done with it?"   
Aziraphale was relieved to be given something to focus on other than the way Crowley's fingers skirted across the coins as he counted them out.  
"Oh! Goodness! Yes, I keep promising to give that back don't I?" he tittered distractedly. "Starting to look like a hostage situation at this point, isn't it?"  
Anathema chuckled.  
"Just drop it off tomorrow or Saturday, no real rush," she said, scraping up the pile of coins Marjorie had just pushed towards her. "There's just an artist who's credited that I would like to look up but I can't remember their last name."  
"Aaand that'll be the rest of the money for the clergy," Crowley said, jingling the coins in his hand as he held Aziraphale's money out towards its owner.  
"Oh. Yes. Thank you very much," Aziraphale stammered, rather pathetically trying not to touch Crowley's fingers with his own as he accepted the money, as if that would have made an ounce of a difference.  
"Anyone fancy a nightcap?" Crowley offered, leaning back in his seat and arching his back, rubbing a hand against the sharp corner of his rib cage, clearly visible through his thin shirt.  
"Aw, no, I can't, dearie, I have a client at ten I'm afraid," Marjorie said, relieving Aziraphale of being the only party-pooper in the bunch. "Gotta get ready and stay sober. You understand. But I'll let you owe me one," she finished with a wink.  
"No, I'd better get home as well," Aziraphale said quickly, nearly jumping out of his chair as Crowley finished smiling sympathetically at Marjorie and instead looked at Aziraphale expectantly. "Have a few things to finish..." He hastily put on his coat and left alongside Marjorie, bidding her a hasty goodbye and hurrying home.

So. Crowley had been a stripper. And an... escort. He had alluded to some sort of 'past' last night, presumably this was it. Made sense, Aziraphale supposed, if such a thing could 'make sense'. A stripper would need to be good looking and Crowley was... frightfully handsome. And he was good at charming people too...  
_That is neither here, nor there, Aziraphale, pull yourself together,_ he scolded himself as he reached the rectory and let himself in.  
What in the blazes was wrong with him? Crowley was trouble on legs, rude and cantankerous and... oozing sex. They had nothing in common, besides both being Catholic - and clearly to very different degrees. What in the world was so bloody fluster-worthy about that?  
Aziraphale scoffed as he took of his jacket and carefully hung it on its usual hook by the door.  
All style and no substance, that was what Crowley was. All... charm and confidence and long red hair...  
Aziraphale groaned and gave up on fumbling with his shoelaces. He needed to clear his head. He traipsed through the living room and dug through a pile of books by the sofa and fished out Anathema's encyclopedia. A quick bike ride out to Jasmine cottage would be just the thing right now. He pulled out his bike and placed the book carefully in the basket and pushed off down the road.

As he neared Anathema's house he was surprised to find the downstairs lights on. He had expected her to still be at the pub with Crowley, but perhaps she too had declined the offer of a drink when everyone else had upped and left?  
This theory was quickly thwarted; upon closer inspection in the spring darkness, Crowley's Bentley was parked, half-hidden behind a bush. Aziraphale abandoned his plan of simply leaving the book in the pillar box, and instead parked his bike and walked up the garden path; he could faintly feel, more than hear, the thrum of a base rhythm against his eardrums. This was hardly the sort of music he knew Anathema to enjoy. Aziraphale frowned. For some reason that thought, that Anathema had invited Crowley home, did not sit well with him. Or that Crowley had invited himself home to Anathema's and she had allowed it. He stubbornly refused to analyse _why_ that bothered him and knocked on the door.  
No one answered, probably due to the loud music. Suddenly a peal of laughter could be heard, Anathema by the pitch of it. Entirely against his better judgement, Aziraphale quietly opened the door, but remained outside just in case things of a more... private nature were taking place. He cleared his throat and ignored the way his fingertips had gone cold, unrelated to the bike ride, and called out;  
"Hello? Anathema?"  
The music was turned down and Anathema appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, a glass of white wine in hand, smiling.  
"Father A! Hi! What brings you here?" she asked, slightly out of breath, cheeks looking a bit warm. She pointed behind her to Crowley who had just slunk up, holding a glass of his own. "Crowley was just demonstrating his signature stripper move." She quirked a brow. "Not the falling off the pole," she added dryly.  
"Good evening, Father," Crowley cackled, swatting at Anathema. "Plonk?" He held out his glass in offering.  
"No. No thank you," Aziraphale said, unable to keep a cool undertone out of his voice. "I just came by to give Anathema her book back. I didn't mean to interrupt... your party." He handed the book to Anathema who thanked him scurried off upstairs, book in one hand and wine in the other.  
Aziraphale and Crowley were left in awkward silence, Crowley giving Aziraphale an inquisitive once-over and Aziraphale refusing to meet his eye.  
"Can I... talk to you outside?" Crowley asked, with the intent casualness of someone who will manhandle you if you do not come voluntarily, ditching his wineglass on the table by the door.  
"I'm headed straight home, I'm going to bed early," Aziraphale said shortly.  
"Just two minutes," Crowley said, grabbing Aziraphale by the arm and pulling him outside. He shut he door behind them.  
"What are you getting so huffy for?" he asked in a low voice, standing very close to Aziraphale, and pushing his sunglasses into his hair in order to stare intently at Aziraphale.  
"I am not getting huffy!" Aziraphale argued, also keeping his voice down.  
"You are too!" Crowley retorted. "Getting snippy 'cos I'm flirting with Marjie and now you've getting an attitude 'cos I'm having a drink with a mate!"  
"I am completely indifferent as to whom you get drunk with," Aziraphale insisted petulantly, barely managing to keep his voice down. "Or who you flirt with!"  
Crowley's eyes flickered between Aziraphale's. Then he snorted with a small shake of his head.  
"I'm just having one glass - because I actually do learn, occasionally," he said with a smirk. He nodded backwards towards the cottage. "And so is she. I'm not as devious as you in that regard." He turned back towards the door and peered over his shoulder in the most infuriatingly coy way. "So if that's all..?"  
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"It wasn't I who requested this conversation," he said sourly. "You're now free to slink back inside and resume... whatever it was you were planning to do."  
Crowley turned on the spot, hand on the door handle.  
"Planning? What on Earth would I be planning?" he asked innocently.  
"I can safely say that I wouldn't know," Aziraphale said haughtily.  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"No... I s'pose not..." he said slowly, eye unreadable behind his damnable glasses. After a moment of thought he smirked. "But rest easy, Angelface. I'm not _planning_ anything." He slipped back inside. As he was about to close the door he met Aziraphale's gaze. "Ten years ago I might have at least considered 'something' an option," he said in a low, sneaky voice. "but... seems like I'm becoming more of a man's man as I've been getting on with it. You'd understand." He pursed his lips in thought and lifted his glasses to wink at Aziraphale. "Night-night."  
Aziraphale stood frozen on the garden path as Crowley shut the door in his face. After a moment he shook himself out and rushed down to his bike and set off back to the village, heart hammering.  
_You'd understand..._  
Or perhaps it was Crowley who understood..?  
Crowley understood. Crowley _knew_. Or had a suspicion strong enough to count as 'knowing', judging by that last remark of his. Oh goodness. Oh Lord...

Aziraphale took less care hanging his coat this time around and hurriedly got out of his shoes and nudged them disorderly off to one side.  
So Crowley was, too... in fact... Or at least something similar. And he _knew_. That was... not an easy thought. Though perhaps the reason why he had told Aziraphale about his own... _ways_ was an attempt at showing solidarity. Crowley had quite a strong dislike for the Church and everything about it and he liked stirring things a bit, did he not, so perhaps it was simply a heads-up that he had... spotted Aziraphale. A friendly wave or some such.  
But would it be friendly? Aziraphale _had_ wondered if perhaps... this sort of thing was the reason why Crowley had such a dislike for the Church... and now that he knew that Aziraphale was working for the church while also being... such. Would Crowley resent Aziraphale for it?  
Although... Crowley was no snitch. He had said as much. He had so far kept poor little Mavis' secret, it seemed. He had seemed delighted about the whole sordid business of going under the Church's nose so maybe... But would that sort of curtesy extend to Aziraphale?  
Aziraphale fretted and wrung his hands all the way up the stairs to his small bedroom and continued to fret as he changed into his pajamas. What on Earth could this mean? And speaking of meanings - what had that wink been about??  
There was, of course, the fairly obvious meaning - that was, it would have been obvious, had it not been for the fact that this was _Crowley_ who had been looking at _Aziraphale_ and why would Crowley wink Aziraphale? But then again... it had looked like...  
Aziraphale sighed as he patted into the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror, hair ruffled and eyes worried. The mirror was only large enough to show his face and shoulders. He had no need for any... surprise viewings of his own form as he left the shower. He greatly preferred himself dressed. Surely Crowley was smart enough to realise that it was the optimal state in which to view Aziraphale. Yes. Crowley was smart. No, there was, surely, no way he had been giving any sort of _wink_ and that was, once again, all for the best. Aziraphale was merely being silly and needed to get a hold of himself, he decided firmly as he brushed his teeth with a pang of disappointment. He spat out his toothpaste and gave himself one last stern look in the mirror. He needed to stop thinking so bloody much about Crowley and his winking.  
He climbed into bed and hastily murmured his way through the Lord's prayer and honestly did his best to purge Crowley from his mind. It was no good dwelling in such things, even if they meant nothing... Silly fantasies were no good. But that devilish, arrogant smirk seemed to have burned itself into the inside of his skull. Why would Crowley make sure Aziraphale knew he was... of a similar persuasion and then _wink_ at Aziraphale like that..? Had it been an attempt at some sort of covert signaling and Crowley was just so used to his flirty way that it had become his default mode, at the cost of less implicit social cues?  
_Or maybe.._. said a dangerous little voice in the back of Aziraphale's mind, which sounded eerily like Crowley's, _he was flirting._  
Aziraphale scoffed and heavy-handedly fluffed his pillow before flopping onto his side.  
Crowley was not flirting. Fast-track fellows with facial tattoos like Crowley, who wore sunglasses indoors and never stuck to the speed limit, did not flirt with sensible, fat, nearly middle-aged sorts like Aziraphale.  
Which was good! Because Aziraphale was a priest. He had taken a vow...  
Perhaps that was it! Crowley was flirting and it was because Aziraphale was a priest, because Crowley liked to stir things up. Aziraphale clicked his tongue disdainfully. He would not be half surprised if that was something Crowley would be... interested in, menace that he was.  
It was a disappointing thought. As much as Aziraphale tried to steer clear of such thoughts, it might have been... a little flattering. Someone like Crowley, taking a bit of an interest. Aziraphale was allowed to take a compliment, priest or not! But, obviously, it was all about the dog collar and nothing to do with Aziraphale as such... He just happened to be a priest, who Crowley had correctly clocked as... a theoretical option and was now serving as a bit of fun for some handsome, careless playboy... with long, end-all-gorgeous auburn hair and a stupid, cock-sure smile...  
Aziraphale shifted and his slowly growing erection rubbed against his pajama bottoms and he had to stifle a moan. He buried his face in his pillow and tried to adjust himself but all that did was encourage his body's reaction. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to catch up to him but all he found behind his eyelids was Crowley's hand meticulously tying up his hair above a dangerous, red smirk...  
Aziraphale groaned and ground against the heel of his palm into the front of his pajama bottoms. This was ridiculous! Crowley was trouble on two legs! Two long, slender legs...  
This of course also set the wine incident last night in a new light, Aziraphale realised, as his mind's eye travelled back to the hair peeking out of Crowley's shirt. Crowley had most likely come around hoping to at least plant the seed to... something.   
Aziraphale swallowed hard. No. That was a terribly uncharitable thing to think of someone. Even Crowley. As much of a menace as he was, Aziraphale only really had evidence, or circumstances at least, speaking against any amorous inclination on Crowley's part in all of this, so really, he ought to give the man the benefit of the doubt. This was all on Aziraphale. He was the one getting all worked up, entertaining his own lewd thoughts of Crowley, who surely had existed in his current attractive, slinky form long before coming to the village and had already proven that he was happy to make no effort for Aziraphale whatsoever.   
Aziraphale buried both his hands under his pillow, letting his body's bothersome reaction persist if it so liked, but refusing to pay it anymore mind. Crowley was not worth getting worked up over, he told himself sternly. No one was, really. Aziraphale was a priest. He had long since made his peace with... who and how he was and he had found the best solution to curb it all. He had been good for months before this! No point falling off the straight and narrow over someone who was at best uninterested and at worst toying with him.   
Aziraphale curled up on his side and clung to his pillow, willing himself to not feel sad. He had nothing to feel sad about. He was doing a good job as a priest, helping a lot of people and that just came with rules. Rules that only protected him in the long run. And he had been doing such a good job sticking to those rules for so long. His body was sadly only human, but life in accordance with the word of Lord was a struggle for anyone. It it had been easy would hardly be worthy of reward. No, Aziraphale certainly had nothing to feel sad for. He was doing the best he could.  
He kept telling himself that until he almost felt the loneliness slip away before sleep overcame him.   
He was doing good...

**Jasmine cottage, 45 minutes earlier**

Crowley shut the front door as suavely as can generally be done and picked up his wine glass, tapping it thoughtfully against his upper lip.  
He considered it officially confirmed; Aziraphale was gay. The look he had given Crowley had to mean that surely. It fit perfectly into everything else.  
'It seemed a good fit' - yeah. He would not be the first little gay Catholic kid to take up holy orders in order to hide behind a vow of chastity, sexuality rendered completely moot. An easy way out and away from judging families.  
Crowley wondered if he had worried Aziraphale... Not by flirting with him as such, Crowley was miles away from being a nice enough person who care if he rubbed a priest up the wrong way by challenging their vows, but... by openly knowing things. It was a bit of a spot to be put on. Crowley knew it well, and as not-nice as he was, he was no psychopath. He did have empathy. Oodles of it on this particular subject...  
Crowley shook himself out of his reminiscing and focused on the topic at hand; Aziraphale. Who could protest until his face turned blue and the cows came home, but he had been getting huffy. First at the flower shop when Crowley had been flirting with Marjie and now because Crowley had gone home with Raggedy Anne for a drink. A completely platonic boring drink, brought about simply because Crowley had nagged the yankee lady to invite him home so he could see 'how the local crystal-freak lived'. Which had turned out to be a surprisingly white-and-bright, Scandinavian country-chic experience. But Aziraphale had taken it all sorts of wrong and had gotten... jealous?  
Crowley scoffed and shook his head.  
He was getting ahead of himself. Just because Aziraphale was gay, that did not mean he would be into Crowley. Besides being a complete grandma who liked a cuppa and a book, Aziraphale was also very fond of his job, took it very seriously, cared deeply about his parish and the people in it. Maybe he was completely straight-laced, just randomly gay and fairly contented with how everything had panned out for him and was simply concerned that Crowley was an arse who was toying with his friends... Could hardly blame him for jumping to that conclusion. It was barely a jump. More of an accidental side-step, like when you've waiting for the light at a pedestrian crossing and think it is about to turn green, but you are wrong, so you have to shuffle around a bit to avoid keeling over. Maybe that was why he had been so ruffled, nothing to do with jealousy at all, and his last wide-eyed look, before Crowley had shut the door, had simply been because he had been put off by that stupid bloody wink Crowley had, for reasons unfathomable, given him, which had to rank somewhere in the top 20 of unsmooth, cringy moves Crowley had pulled over the years.  
But speaking of 'unsmooth'... Aziraphale was a terribly... human sort. All those delightful cracks in the holy ordained varnish, the snide remarks, the fussing, the... general Aziraphale-ness when no one, who had any shred of illusion about the man, was watching. Maybe... something else was slipping out too?  
Crowley chewed on the rim of his glass and drifted randomly about in his cloud of priest vs. gay vs. jealous vs. uninterested vs. how bloody gorgeous Aziraphale was. He startled when Raggedy Anne stepped into the room.  
"I'm sorry that took so long! Mom called! Did Father A go home?"  
Crowley blinked and pulled the wine glass out of his mouth before he could accidentally take a bite out of it.  
"Guh, yeah, he had to go to bed..."  
He had kept all things Aziraphale firmly boxed away in a corner of his mind that did not so much as brush sides with his wank bank, because hopelessly lusting after a priest was too bloody... complicated and pathetic, but somewhere in the tornado of thoughts about recent events, things seemed to have gotten jumbled and mixed up there, and so the thought of Aziraphale going to bed was... unreasonably captivating. Would he be wearing pajamas? Really horribly ones, tartan, presumably... Little fluffy tartan potato kneeling down to say his evening prayers and while he was down there anyway -  
"Sorry, wha'?"  
Crowley had been lost in thought for a second and had only vaguely registered that he was being spoken to.  
"I said, you should get going too. Unless you really really want to hear me sing in the shower."  
Crowley snorted and got up from the sofa.  
"Bookgirl, I don't wanna hear you sing anywhere," he promised grimly.  
Laura Ingalls crossed her arms and scowled.  
"Bookgirl..? Lunch lady, crystal-freak. You've forgotten my name, haven't you?"  
Crowley sniffed.  
"Remind me what it is..?"  
"A-na-the-ma."  
"That's the one!"  
"Nuh-uh. Say it."  
Crowley sulked.  
"A-na-the-ma," he sneered, slowly and clearly. "God, that's a mouthful... Can't I just call you Anna?"  
"Do not. Call me Anna," Anathema said dangerously as she snatched his glass and marched of to the kitchen.  
"But it's so long and weird!" Crowley whined.  
Anathema shot him a look worthy of a librarian.  
"You know that being this bad at names is an affliction, right?" she asked.  
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"I am aware, thank you, but every time I've changed GP over the past 20 years, they've checked me for anomic aphasia and I don't have it!" He threw his hands out, shoulders drawn up. "I'm just an arsehole who doesn't listen when people tell me their names."  
Anathema raised her brows.  
"You've literally been diagnosed as a wanker who just doesn't bother paying attention?"  
Crowley nodded.  
"Yup."  
Anathema stared.  
"Wow..."  
Crowley snickered.  
"I know," he said with deliberate smugness, waggling his brows as he pulled on his jacket and crammed his feet back into his boots. "Thanks for the wine, sleep tight, all those... whateveries you're supposed to say," he rambled disinterestedly as he let himself out onto the garden path with a dismissive wave. Anathema waved back tersely.  
"And to you," she said with sardonic sweetness.  
Crowley smirked and shut the door. She was alright, Anathema. Bit American, but not as badly as one might have feared. Definitely still a crystal-weirdo, though. Crowley wondered if she had figured out about Aziraphale or if she had inhaled too much incense to have noticed. He wondered if anyone knew, really. Marjie might. Was Aziraphale on the list of potential romantic options she had offered Crowley a few weeks prior? Nah, surely not, she made him knitted vests, that was the opposite of inciting someone to get in trouble.

Crowley ended up having a long hard think about Aziraphale and his sweater vests as he sped home in the Bentley. The sweater vests... and all the soft fleshy bits underneath. Once at home, he kicked off his boots and flopped backwards onto the bed.  
Honestly, Aziraphale had no business going around being that weirdly hot. That bloody smile and the soft body and... his deeply denied tendency to rebel. Would he want to... rebel with Crowley?  
Crowley groaned at how corny that had sounded, even as a technically wordless thought in his head, but none-the-less unzipped his jeans and rubbed his hard-on through his pants. What he would not give to get his hands on Aziraphale... Had anyone else had their hands on him before? Or was he a virgin? If he had indeed chosen priesthood as a way of coping with his sexuality that spoke in favour of the latter... But still. People were people...  
Crowley pushed his pants down too and stroked himself in earnest with a sigh, bending his legs and spreading them as wide as his half-shed jeans allowed. His eyes fluttered shut and an image conjured itself up in his mind of Aziraphale on top of him, naked and soft and warm, his stomach filling the wide gap between Crowley's thighs, his weight pushing Crowley down. What would Aziraphale sound like during sex? What would his cock be like?  
Eh, did it matter? Chances were Crowley would never find out if he was wrong or right, so... Or were they? Once again the cracks were beckoning with their promises of something less polite...  
Yeah. Something 'less polite'. That was what Crowley needed right now. He gave a few hard tugs on his cock and sighed. Fuck it. Might as well go all out. He got up, jeans and pants still around his thighs, and hobbled to the en-suite bathroom to grab a towel. On his way back he shed his jeans in a series of kicks and wiggles, made doubly awkward by his erection bobbing about. Back at the bed he lay down the towel and dropped down on top of it and reached over to rummage through his bedside drawer. He fished out lube and a toy. With the moving and everything it had been a while since he had taken the time to go all out and take... proper care of himself.  
He quickly lubed up the toy and pushed it inside himself, relishing the stretch. Yep. He had needed this. He let his eyes drift shut again and once again enjoyed the image of Aziraphale moaning above him, while he fumbled for the button for the vibrator. He moaned loudly as his slippery fingers finally found it and the toy started pulsating against his prostate. His clean hand wound itself into his hair, pulling on a fistful of strands. Would Aziraphale do that? Would he be that kind of guy in bed?  
He was tonight, Crowley decided, as he rolled his hips, jostling the toy in his arse just so and sending spikes of pleasure through his body. Oh, he liked that idea. Aziraphale getting a little rough with him, all the while moaning sweetly and looking like a complete angel, all flushed cheeks and ruffled halo of hair.  
Crowley was almost startled at how loud a noise that image wrangled out of him. He furiously stroked himself with his slick hand, angling the toy with the other hand as he felt the wave threatening to crash, his mouth seemingly taking charge of itself and repeatedly choking out one word over and over;  
"Angel. Angel, Angel -!"  
With a strangled hiss, Crowley came, to the mental image of Aziraphale absolutely wrecking his hole, come painting his stomach, a few splatters flying far as his collar bones.  
Fuck. He would never be able to look at Aziraphale the same way again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I did away with chapter titles... I felt like I would run out of fitting cards and folded like a cheap suit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Sunday 21st May**

Crowley spent the next couple of days trying his darnedest to look like he had in fact not jerked off thinking about a priest - however one went about looking like that - just in case Aziraphale happened to cross his path. Aziraphale did, however, not happen to do so. Come Sunday afternoon it was clear that a very conscious effort was being made on Aziraphale's part to avoid Crowley, who began to worry if he had seriously spooked the poor little potato. He decided that some sort of chat was perhaps in order, but that would require an in of some sort and with Aziraphale being more illusive than Crowley's black iPhone left on the black marble of his kitchen counter top, such a thing was hard to come by.  
He briefly entertained the idea of simply lying in wait after Mass, but then had a long hard think if he was really that desperate. Then he thought of the invite to become a regular at poker night, which Marjie had kindly extended to him and he had accepted, but that would be Thursday the week after next and he was, in fact, not quite un-desperate enough to wait for that. There was also the option to swing by the Church office under the pretense of needing an answer to some question or other about the flower arrangements, but Aziraphale had a tendency to never actually be where you needed him to be and Deedee, the parish director, would only try and help out in his place. This option would, good or not, have had to wait until Tuesday to be put into action anyway, since Aziraphale was guaranteed to not be on his perch on Mondays, when he went to the old folks home... And Crowley was, upon further introspection, also not un-desperate enough for that wait either.  
After closing up the shop at one, finishing a wedding order for the Anglican church in Tadfield - which he had come to understand was the actual name for what people so far had been calling 'Upper' - and having an espresso to think on in the upstairs office, he decided to play his trump card; the tartan umbrella, which had been safely tugged away in the only storage space in Crowley's life that did not inexplicably and at random swallow things into another dimension - the glove compartment of his Bentley. Thusly determined he swung himself into the driver's seat and drove - rather enjoying the sheer ridiculous excess of it - to the Church grounds.  
Outside the rectory, he found Aziraphale hanging his washing on the rack in the front garden. The blond froze, wet cardigan in hand, eyes round and frown deep as he watched the Bentley pull into the yard, before clearly catching himself and hurriedly returning to his laundry.  
Crowley parked and languidly extricated himself from the car and elegantly slammed the door, umbrella tucked under his arm.  
"I realised I was still holding onto this," he said as he sauntered up to the white picket fence and held up his tartan hostage.  
Aziraphale looked like he may not have guessed that Crowley was only using it as an excuse, but all the same had no interest in his bloody umbrella. Crowley could only feel bad for him.  
"That's kind of you," Aziraphale said waveringly. "but there was really no need to make a fuss about it, I have plenty where that came home. I'm keeping quite dry."  
Crowley hummed. He suddenly realised he had not planned beyond rolling up with the umbrella.  
 _Fuck's sake..._  
"Still. Y'know," he shrugged, peering into the laundry basket. "That's a lot of... beige," he noted. Great. That was a great line. Want to try 'sorry I mentioned that I know you're gay' too? Why did his plans always run out of _plan_ before he was done?? The contents of the laundry basket were, however, very very beige, which was sort of surprising for a priest, so he supposed it sort of counted as chatting.  
"I... save up my sweater vests and cardigans to make a full of load of laundry..." Aziraphale explained, looking for all intents and purposes like he felt just as ridiculous having this conversation as Crowley did.  
"And it's all very beige," Crowley countered, because apparently this was a hill he was ready to die on. If it even was a hill?  
Aziraphale stopped fumbling with a clothes peg and blinked down at his basket.  
"... Yes."  
_Come on, Crowley, don't let it fizzle out now, you've finally caught the guy!_  
"So what's up with that anyway?" Crowley asked. "I've been wondering... I thought you lot preferred my sort of aesthetic."  
Aziraphale's eyes very obviously did the up-and-down over Crowley's form.  
"Y-your -?"  
"All black."  
"Oh. Oh, yes, well... The shirt at least, I suppose..." Aziraphale stammered. "Or technically the whole thing, really, but - " He gave a little tut and a minute pout crept into his lips. "black really isn't my colour, is it?" he asked, pulling on the hem of his brown waistcoat, layered over a light blue shirt.  
Crowley hummed. He could easily imagine Aziraphale looking perfectly agreeable against the black silk sheets of his bed.  
"If you say so."  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue and delicately hung up a cardigan by the bottom hem and the sleeves. By the looks of it, it was yet another of Marjie's creations.  
"It's not like it affects how I do my job anyway," he argued, with a stubborn undertone. "In a big city I suppose a sort of easily recognisable uniform may come in handy, as an identifier, but out here? Everyone knows who I am out here. There's absolutely no reason why I need to eat, sleep and shower in my clerics. A priest is a priest and on duty no matter what he is wearing - or was I just seriously had last last night when I was called out at half two?"  
_Ahh, proper conversation going on now._  
"Last night?" Crowley inquired, leaning prettily against the fence.  
Aziraphale hummed.  
"Yes. To the hospice."  
Crowley sucked in a breath.  
"Sounds rough... Did you wear beige?" he asked, because conversation was good, heavy conversation... not so much.  
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"Of course I didn't, that was serious business! But really, certain individuals around here act as if the colour of my shirt when I take confession is what matters -"  
"Good evening, Father!"  
Aziraphale sighed deeply.  
"- such as Arpee..." he muttered under his breath as the elderly man marched across the gravel yard towards Crowley and Aziraphale, dachshund in tow.  
"I see that you're once again in your casual attire," Mr Taylor noted disapprovingly.  
'Casual attire' seemed like a stretch of a description for an outfit which included a waistcoat and a bowtie. Crowley watched Aziraphale's eyes almost glaze over and a sickly fake, polite smile spread on his face.  
"Good evening to you too, Mr Tyler. What brings you here?" he asked monotonously. "Doing your rounds to safe-guard the village?"  
Mr Taylor puffed up. "Someone has to keep order around here," he said snootily. He shot Crowley's Bentley a dirty look, haphazardly parked as it was, in the middle of the yard, at an odd angle. "Out tearing up the roads and making common folks fear for their life again, Mr Crowley?"  
Crowley had in fact not been speeding while driving through the village. Neighbours left such bothersome dents in the bonnet, he found.  
"Village life is mellow. Nothing like a bit of adrenaline every now and again to make you feel alive," Crowley said with a big smile while casually removing himself from the sniffling snout of the dachshund. The dog seemed to get the message and idly turned its attention to a lupin poking through the fence.  
Mr Taylor scoffed. "May I remind you that this isn't Monaco and this is not a race track!" he snipped. "We do not appreciate that sort of reckless behaviour around here."  
"It's Sunday. The main street is all closed up and we have a perfectly functioning pavement. I'm sure no one has actually been bothered," Aziraphale piped up, a bit surprisingly.  
Mr Taylor clearly did not appreciate being argued with.  
"And is the church closed up too, Father?" he asked, eying Aziraphale's unclerical get-up. Crowley had to begrudgingly agree with his disapproval. If Aziraphale had just stuck to dressing like a priest, Crowley would never have spotted him through the shop window, looking like the world's cutest potato, and fallen arse-over-teakettle  
"'And on the seventh day the Lord rested'," Aziraphale said placatingly, shifting under the older man's disapproving gaze.  
Mr Taylor appeared to have nothing to add to that, not verbally at least, but he huffed and turned his disgruntled eyes towards Crowley once more. "I hope you can preach some manners into that one," he snipped. "Otherwise I should like to point out that there are a fair few of us who find him to be highly unsuitable company."  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Well. As you've pointed out more than once in that past, unsuitable company is what I do best," he said dismissively. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mr Tyler, I really must be getting on. The laundry doesn't hang itself."  
Mr Taylor bristled and huffed again, turning on his feet and dragging the dachshund away with him. It trudged along amicably.  
Crowley and Aziraphale looked after him.  
"So. Where were we?" Aziraphale said brightly, if with a vexed undertone.  
"We were talking about your sartorial disobedience," Crowley offered.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "As I said, I do my job no matter what I'm wearing, so I really don't see why it matters."  
"Aren't you supposed to be grieving for the death of Christ or summat?" Crowley asked sneakily.  
"Why would I be sad that he followed the Divine Plan and died for our sins?" Aziraphale asked with honest, exasperated confusion. "The Lord wanted it, so it happened."  
Crowley had no good comeback for that.  
"Surely there'd be other colours you'd look better in," he argued instead. "You've too much personality for beige."  
Aziraphale's cheeks pinked slightly. "Yes, well..." he stammered, pulling on the hem of his waistcoat in a terribly cute manner. "It's not terribly interesting, I know..."  
"I mean," Crowley said quickly. "there's plenty to be said for beige. Where'd the trench coat industry be without, y'know? But still... It doesn't really feel like a compliment if someone goes 'oh, beige is really your colour'..."  
Aziraphale pouted in thought. "I think I might be a little offended if someone said that to me," he agreed. "But it's not about looking good, it's just that I don't see how wearing black makes me better at doing what I do."  
Crowley made a vague noise, fishing for a fag in his jacket pocket.  
"Mr Taylor clearly disagrees," he said.  
Aziraphale frowned, picking up his now empty laundry basket.  
"Who?"  
"Grouch McGee back there, with the dog," Crowley said, nodding back towards the street, lighting his ciggy, holding out the packet in offer.  
"Oh! Oh, Mr Tyler, you mean," Aziraphale said, waving a dismissive hand.  
"Yeah, him."  
Aziraphale quirked a brow.  
"Just call him Arpee," he said. "Everyone else does. When he's not listening, that is." He cast a glance about as if the old busybody might be hiding in the bushes somewhere, while tucking the basket safely under his arm. "Well, now, I must be getting -"  
"COME BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE RASCALS! DON'T THINK I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU!!"  
Crowley and Aziraphale both startled. Aziraphale even dropped the basket, as the sound of feet pounding into the ground grew louder and louder. From the church yard, four children came running, out of breath and laughing, trying to keep their heads down while sprinting full throttle towards the rectory house. The two adults stood silently as the children, three boys and a girl, burst through Aziraphale's garden gate and tumbled up the front steps and into the house.  
"I -! Excuse me!" Aziraphale grabbed his basket and marched into the house, frowning, Crowley trailing after him, umbrella still in hand. "I say! You lot!"  
Inside, giggling and shuffling could be heard from the kitchen. As Crowley peered in between Aziraphale's head and the door frame, he saw the kids in a pile under the stairs, crammed in besides an old washer and dryer set.  
"We were just having a look at Arpee's apples," one of them explained, a boy with curly golden hair. Crowley recognised him as the lippy kid with the lollipop and the yummy mummy. "But then Arpee came back."  
"Yes, thank you I figured as much," Aziraphale scoffed, setting his laundry basket down on the counter, a bit harder than one normally would. He clicked his tongue on annoyance while the kids kept giggling. "I really ought to tell your parents."  
"But you won't," the lollipop kid grinned. "'cos you're not a grass."  
"And actually, Arpee will probably be at Adam's house complaining right now, so you don't have to do anything," another boy noted, glasses askew.  
"What's the florist doing here?" the third boy asked. He was completely squashed into the corner, up against the appliances.  
Aziraphale frowned and turned, having apparently not realised that Crowley had followed him inside.  
"Oh. This is, uh - this is Crowley," he explained.  
"Yeah, we know," the cornered boy replied. "My mum keeps yammering on about him. She thinks he's proper lush." He pulled a bit of a face.  
Crowley snickered, but felt it get lodged in his throat, while his stomach did a bit of a flip, when he watched Aziraphale look decidedly unamused.  
 _You're getting huffy again, Angel_.  
"More like _a_ lush," Aziraphale muttered dryly, shooting Crowley a look. Then he ran a hand over his face and sighed with annoyance. "Do come out of there, for pity's sake, no sense in the lot of you hiding under my stairs like a bunch of gremlins."  
The children came crawling out. Aziraphale eyed them sternly.  
"It's not nice going into other people's gardens," he scolded.  
"It's not a garden! It's just a field," the girl argued. "He doesn't even have a fence or anything, it's just wide open. We were just walking through and took a look at the tree to see how it was coming along."  
"It's still trespassing," Aziraphale countered, shooing the children out into the living room.  
"Yeah, well, if they could lock us away for it, they would've by now," the lollipop boy said with a shrug. "Arpee would've made sure of that. I'm Adam, by the way," he said to Crowley as if Crowley had shown any interest in knowing. "And this is Pepper, Brian and Wensley. And your name's Crowley. My mum mentioned you."  
"Oh yeah? What's she been saying?" Crowley asked, dropping himself backwards over the arm of the sofa.  
"Nothing good, I hope," Aziraphale scoffed. "Now, you lot. I'm sure it's as safe for you to come out now as it'll ever be. I need to get started on my dinner."  
"What're you having?" the specced kid asked. "Something nice? Your dinners are always nice."  
"I'm having a curry," Aziraphale said distractedly as he tried to usher the kids towards the front door with only marginal success. They kept slipping away to prod at one book or another, or pull on the string of his banker's lamp. "No, Brian, please, you'll only get dirty finger prints all over that -!"  
"Is Mr Crowley staying for dinner?" the lollipop boy asked.  
Aziraphale became very obviously flustered.  
"Not as far as I'm aware," he stuttered.  
"Then why's he here?" the lanky boy asked, wiping his hands on the back of his worn jeans before picking up another book.  
"He probably needs a priest," Lollipop replied from the desk where he was drawing a smiley in the dust on top of Aziraphale's ancient brick of a computer screen. "You're not supposed to ask about that kinda stuff. Mum says that's private business."  
Crowley could have sworn he heard Aziraphale mutter something user his breath that sounded an awful lot like 'he needs Jesus, that's for sure'. He forced a grin to stay off his face.   
The blatant bastard.  
Finally Aziraphale managed to shovel the kids out the door and shut it behind him.  
"Cool ankle biters," Crowley noted when the blond returned to the living room. "They seemed at home."  
"Yes. It's my parish director's kid and his cronies," Aziraphale sighed. "Adam lives right next door to Arpee. They tend to come running here to hide whenever they've pestered the old bugger."  
"The Hell's his problem, anyway? Up in everybody's bloody business..." Crowley scoffed with a sneer, spinning himself around so he was on his knees on the sofa, hanging over the back of it - at least as much as was allowed by the side table behind it, absolutely brimming with books.  
Aziraphale picked up a book that one of the kids had looked at and moved it back to what appeared to be its proper place - not that Crowley could make out any discernible difference.  
"Whose?"  
"That... Arby bloke," Crowley said. "Nosey old git, he is."  
Aziraphale sighed, sinking into a dining chair. "He wasn't always -" he started. "or well, no, actually, he always was like this but it got a lot worse after his wife passed away," he corrected himself.  
Crowley bobbed his head in some sort of way and made a noise.  
"Ah. Like that."  
Aziraphale nodded, pressing his lips together. "Yes... Ethel. She was secretary to the Parish Council and played the piano at Mass, before Deidre. Strict lady, but nice enough in her own way, I suppose," he said kindly.  
As much as he was not one for general politeness Crowley felt like a modicum of polite interest was required at this point since he was finally having a proper conversation with Aziraphale, albeit not exactly on the topic he had planned.  
"What got her?"   
"Breast cancer," Aziraphale said sadly.  
"Classic," Crowley conceded.  
"Quite. After that Arpee just... didn't know what to do with himself I suppose," Aziraphale shrugged. "So he became the village busybody. To an even greater extend than before."  
"That's bloody sad..." Crowley said with a grimace, not so much in the sense that he sympathised with Arpee, as in the sense that badgering everyone else about how they pruned their fruit trees, painted their sheds, parked their cars on private property or, indeed, what they wore was a pathetic existence.  
Aziraphale tutted.  
"Mm... It's been nearly ten years and he's just... like this. At least he's got Eleanor."  
"Who?"  
"The dog."  
"Surprisingly docile pet for such an overstrung chap," Crowley noted.  
Aziraphale huffed an exasperated laugh.  
"Wouldn't you be if you were forced to walk 15 miles a day at march speed?" he asked rolling his eyes. "D'you know, most people think she's a dachshund. In reality she's a labrador and her legs have just been worn down to nubbins from all the walking."  
For a long moment they stared at each other, then Crowley barked out a loud laugh and Aziraphale's perfectly straight face crumbled into a wicked little grin.  
"Was there, er..." Aziraphale cleared his throat and his perfect little smirk fell. "Was there something you wanted..?" he asked nervously, folding his hands tightly in his lap.  
Crowley swallowed and held up the umbrella that he had dumped on the sofa.  
Aziraphale eyed the umbrella.  
"Ah, yes. That. Just... leave that there, it's fine," he nodded.  
Crowley kept holding onto the umbrella. It was his only excuse for being here really. Putting it down as a way of handing it back would mean he could be excused at any moment.  
"Uhh, I was... wondering, actually, nh... the other night -" he started.  
"Yes, I thought as much," Aziraphale cut him off. He got up from his chair. "I would appreciate if you just... didn't. Talk about it," he said as he made his way to the kitchen. Crowley swung himself out of the sofa and followed him.  
"I wasn't going to. I am not going to."  
Aziraphale eyed him appraisingly.  
"You're not?"  
"I'm not," Crowley repeated adamantly.  
Aziraphale's eyes bore into Crowley's dark glasses for a long moment. Then he sighed and dug a large pot out of a cupboard.  
"What're you having for dinner tonight?" he asked briskly.  
Crowley kicked at the old worn linoleum flooring, a god-awful 70's brown study in stylistic depravity. Alright. Changing the subject.  
"Instant noodles, probably," he said disinterestedly.  
Aziraphale looked horrified.  
"Instant noodles??"  
Crowley snorted and leaned against the counter.  
"Yeah," he said with a shrug.  
"Did you forget to go to the shops?" Aziraphale asked, still looking like Crowley had suggested something truly unthinkable.  
Crowley chuckled.  
"I didn't forget, I just didn't. Not much of a cook, me. Y'know, London. Chippies everywhere, stick your arm out and whistle and there's a hot curry with naan coming towards ya."  
"There's a nice Thai place in Norton," Aziraphale supplied.  
Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets, as far as they would go, and nodded thoughtfully.  
"I'll bear that in mind. Maybe I should save the noodles for some other time and go check that out instead."  
"The Hell you will," Aziraphale scoffed. "Really. A single man your age, 'not much of a cook', Lord help you. You are going absolutely nowhere, we're making curry. Wash your hands and get out of that jacket."  
Crowley wanted to protest, he was in no mood for an impromptu cooking class with a hot, closeted priest who did not want to talk about 'it', but the look Aziraphale gave him was so no-nonsense that he gave up.  
"Alright, yeah, okay, lemme just... take off some clothes," he said, not even meaning it in any particular way beyond grouching and earning himself a horrified, flushed glare. He quickly scurried off with an apologetic grimace to ditch his jacket and shoes by the front door.  
"Alright," Aziraphale said, putting his hands together, when Crowley returned to the kitchen. He had put a cutting board and a knife on counter. "This is a carrot," he said, holding up a long orange vegetable.  
Crowley groaned.  
"Hah-dee-hah."


	10. Chapter 10

Cooking with Aziraphale actually turned out pretty alright. If two grown men absolutely hissing at each other, in a kitchen that felt too cramped, could be called 'pretty alright'. Crowley reckoned that it could, as a matter of fact. He managed to keep all ten of his fingers while slicing carrots and to not fuck up pouring cream into the sautéed veggies. Aziraphale was a condescending prick the entire time and bickering back at him breathed life into Crowley in ways he had not realised that he had needed.  
Finally Aziraphale declared dinner to be ready and shoved two sets of plates and cutlery at Crowley.  
"Would you like a glass of wine with your food?" he asked, bitchy attitude completely gone and replaced with polite hospitality.  
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"No thanks, I'm not spending another evening drinking alone while you sit there, judging me," he groused.  
Aziraphale tittered nervously.  
"Oh, that. Well, no, you see, that was..." He cut himself off.  
Crowley looked up from trying to clear a space of pens, half-done crosswords, pens and empty lighters across from the patch of empty surface area where Aziraphale clearly always sat when he ate.  
"That was..?"  
Aziraphale squirmed.  
"I'm terribly sorry about that," he said guiltily. "It's only that... I usually don't have more than one drink around... company. You know. Because... drink makes one chatty, doesn't it rather?"  
Crowley hummed. Rule number one of Fight Club. Figures.  
"So you have drink number two alone?" Crowley asked sardonically.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"And you don't?" he asked flatly, brow raised.  
Crowley ignored the quip.  
"Yeah, well. You can relax. And y'know... not drink alone an' maybe get some help..." he added under his breath.  
"I don't have a problem," Aziraphale groaned. Then he clearly heard himself and grimaced. "I rarely have more than one, is my point. Dinner's ready," he continued before Crowley could comment. "There's a bottle of red with a stopper on top of the fridge, if you like," he continued, grabbing the pot of curry from the stove and hauling off to sit on a cast iron trivet on the dining table before returning for the rice. After a moment of thought he added; "Grab me a glass as well."  
Crowley returned with wine and glasses and plucked the angel shaped wine stopper out.  
_Angel, Angel, Angel..._  
_Fuck..._  
He willed his cock to mind its own damn business and plopped into his chair.  
"So... You went to the hospice last night?" he asked, deciding that surely dying people would be a sufficiently grim topic to curb his pining and pouring a glass of wine. "Someone ready to check out?"  
Aziraphale nodded, accepting the glass.  
"Someone _checked_ out."  
Crowley hummed, pouring himself a generous drink as well.  
"Bad?" he asked, mildly curiously.  
Aziraphale rubbed his ear.  
"Depends how you see it, I suppose," he said thoughtfully, taking a seat. "If you've been dog sick for a year and it's only going one way but at a snail's pace... The sentimental sort might find it awful, but frankly, in my experience, it's a relief to everyone. Both to the deceased and to the family who've been watching them suffer. They'll be better off with the Lord."  
"I assume this was one of those cases?" Crowley asked, holding out his plate for Aziraphale to dish out curry and rice.  
"Aren't all hospice cases?" Aziraphale said, filling his own plate. "I can't discuss specifics. Privacy and such."  
"But it was one of those," Crowley said matter-of-factly. He raised his glass. Aziraphale shot him a look but said nothing, simply clinking their glasses together. Crowley took a quick sip and pursed his lips, exchanging his glass for his fork and poking innocently at a bamboo shoot.  
"And you didn't... suggest..?" he asked, trailing off.  
Aziraphale frowned, spreading a napkin out across his lap.  
"Suggest what?" "Y'know," Crowley shrugged innocently, waving his fork about.  
"If they'd been suffering... There are ways -" Crowley started innocently.  
"Not legal ones," Aziraphale cut him off primly, snatching up his cutlery. "and thereby not safe ones. Not in this country anyway."  
"But that's your only issue?" Crowley prodded, pushing carrot slices about on his plate.  
Of course he prodded. Aziraphale was well aware that he had backed himself into this damned corner in the first place by entertaining something as potentially controversial as hospice patients in conversation with Crowley, of all people, but good Lord...  
"I didn't say that," he said firmly, pushing chicken and rice onto his fork. "The taking of a life bestowed by God is a mortal sin."  
Crowley quirked a brow. Whatever was coming next, Aziraphale wanted him to _go away_.  
"So this is your limit then? Once they've been pushed out by mamma, they'll just have to stick it out?"  
Aziraphale shifted in his seat.  
"Well, in the end it's up to them," he said, before taking a carefully measured mouthful of curry.  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean? It's their choice but you disapprove?"  
"It means that I am, as always, happy to pray for the tortured souls of sinners, that their stint in Purgatory may be a short one," Aziraphale said irritatedly, from behind his napkin, mouth still half full.  
Crowley leaned back in his seat and smirked.  
"Oh, I know this one," he said, pointing his fork, a bite of leak skewered on the prongs. " _Do what you find best and let me do the worrying._ I see, I see."  
Aziraphale swallowed and dapped his mouth with his napkin, perhaps a bit hard.  
"It is part of my job," he said affrontedly, sipping his wine. "Praying," he clarified quickly. "For the World and its sins."  
"D'you reckon it works?" Crowley asked thoughtfully, munching on the leak. "Prayer."  
"Of course I d - It works. Prayer works. I believe in prayer," Aziraphale stuttered vexedly, trying to gather up another forkful and being a bit too forceful to actually get the bits of meat and veg to stay on the fork.  
Crowley kept chewing and frowned. "I dunno. Always seemed a bit like just being put on a great big celestial hold to me," he said. "Back when I prayed 'cos that's we did at our house'. Complete sham if you ask me. 'Drücken Sie zwei für Deutsh. God is not available, but your call is important to us. Please hold. - So long, farewell, auf Wieder -"  
Aziraphale groaned.  
"How dare you! Suggest that Heaven would have that as a holding tune!" He swatted as Crowley with his napkin. "Blasphemy!"  
Crowley cackled delightedly.  
"You know I'm right. Bet they play it in the lifts too. And the restrooms."  
"Ah, yes. The Heavenly little gents'," Aziraphale said, shaking his head, but struggling to smother a smile.  
Crowley kept snickering.  
"Imagining going for a slash, to that. For all eternity."  
Aziraphale groaned again, louder this time.  
"Good Lord..."  
"Almost makes Hell sound agreeable, eh?" Crowley noted grimly. "You'd know this, by the way. Is Hell no smoking? 'Nathema an' me were discussing it the other day."  
Aziraphale laughed.  
"Why would Hell, of all places, be no-smoking? Seems a bit futile."  
Crowley scoffed.  
"Imagine eternity without a fag. All those sinners, ready to kill for half a drag of a Winston One."  
Aziraphale paused, looking positively horrified.  
"Dante would've been proud to have thought of that one," he conceded. "I'll have to bring that up some time in my sermons. That's the sort of threat people understand. Might make them perk up and pay attention."  
Crowley snickered again and tucked into his curry in earnest.  
"The asthmatic crowd will be lost to you, though," he said, mouth full. "This is nice," he continued after another couple of mouthfuls.  
Yeah. This was nice, Aziraphale thought. Bickering with Crowley over dinner, just working their way through the world, one semi-random issue at a time -  
"Oh. Oh, the food, yes. Good. Glad you like it," he stammered, snapping out of his reverie. "It's nothing fancy, as you saw. You should be able to cook it on your own."  
Crowley quirked a brow and swallowed.  
"Ah. Good deed of the day, is it? Teaching the hopeless city slicker to take care of himself," he said acidly.  
Aziraphale frowned into his wine.  
"Oh, don't," he tutted.  
Crowley snorted softly.  
"Gosh, it's bloody dark in here, innit?" he then asked, wrinkling his nose at the lamp above the dining table.  
"Not really, no," Aziraphale said. "It's just you and those bloody cool guy glasses."  
Crowley grunted.  
"Seriously, this is as bright as it gets?" he whined.  
"Yes, seriously."  
Crowley clicked his tongue in annoyance and pushed his sunglasses into his hair.  
"Oh, look, he has a f -" Aziraphale started, then froze. "Goodness."  
As it turned out those ridiculous glasses had concealed... a rather striking pair of pale hazel eyes. At a distance, in the warm light of the electric bulb, they looked almost yellow. It was, however, the pupils that really drew Aziraphale's attention. "I hope this isn't uncomfortable for you?" he said quickly. "Without the glasses, I mean. Are they very sensitive or -?"  
Crowley smirked and took a sip of wine.  
"Nah. They're fine. I just wear the glasses so people don't stare...Don't want someone to crash 'cos they think they've seen a demon walking down the street..." he said with a shrug.  
Aziraphale sniffed, dragging his eyes off Crowley's and down to his plate.  
"Well, I promise I won't crash my curry," he said primly. "I may be a priest, but I'm not quite that daft."  
"You don't believe in demons and possessions?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale shrugged dismissively, making the mistake of looking back up and immediately having to force himself to stop trying to count the flecks of orange in Crowley's eyes.  
"I don't believe they're nearly as common as people have thought over the ages," he said. "I mean, if you were a demon - sorry, since you are a demon," he said dryly, making Crowley laugh delightedly, and _most definitely not_ basking in that.  
"So in my professional opinion," Crowley chuckled dryly.  
"In your professional opinion," Aziraphale agreed sardonically. "wouldn't it be a rather stupid demon that went about announcing that it was there so someone would know to get rid of it? Presumably it would have some sort of reason to possess a person. Other than simply making a nuisance of itself. Just popping in and getting nothing done seems like a grand old waste of time."  
"Hmm, as a sort of terrorism?" Crowley suggested. "Making people worry they'll be next?"  
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose skeptically.  
"Surely that would only drive people towards the Lord for protection."  
"Then maybe it's just a means to make people sin?"  
"You'd think there'd be more efficient ways for that... If you had to quickly aggravate a large number of people, how would you do it?"  
Crowley stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth.  
"Cut off the London mobile network," he said after beat. "Fancy it, 15 million people, with no signal, pissed off and desperate, taking it out on each other or fucking to pass time."  
"See?" Aziraphale argued. "Possession just isn't cost efficient when you could do things like that."  
"So what you're saying is that you believe in schizophrenia?" Crowley summarised, once he had finished laughing.  
"I believe wickedness can come to all of us, but it doesn't make us foam around the mouth and talk with funny voices," Aziraphale said, realising he was, once again, completely caught up in Crowley's unusual eyes, crinkling as they were right now and with a few tears of amusement glinting. "We all have the potential for wrong-doing, no need for demons and silly excuses," he muttered, once more pulling his gaze back to his food. "It's up to us to own up to it and ask for help to overcome it, otherwise we carry the burden alone... There's no snarling creature who'll do it for us to mock the Lord. The only mockery is ours, when we refuse to admit to and repent our sins..." he finished in a low voice, frowning to himself.  
Crowley looked at Aziraphale blankly for a second. He looked like he was about to say something but then thought better of it. He returned his attention to his curry, helping himself to a few more bites before putting down his cutlery and pushing his plate away.  
"Not your cup of tea?" Aziraphale asked politely after a moment.  
"Nah, nah, like I said, that was brilliant," Crowley groaned, slumping his seat and folding an arm behind his head.  
Aziraphale stared at Crowley's plate. A little over half of the food had gone.  
"You're... you're done?" he asked.  
"Stuffed to the brim," Crowley said languidly, sloshing his wine about in his glass. "Couldn't fit another bite in if I tried."  
Aziraphale looked down at his own plate. He had fully intended to finish it. Maybe go for a small second helping. Now his stomach was in a knot.  
"Right." He forced himself to take another bite, but he had a hard time swallowing it. "W-well, I'm glad you... you liked it." He smiled stiffly, putting down his fork and knife against the rim of his plate.  
Crowley unfolded his arm and leaned forward.  
"I did!" he said, adamantly. "It was nice!"  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Good," he said, flustered, picking up his cutlery again, for no bloody reason.  
"I'm just full, honest!" Crowley insisted.  
Aziraphale's eyes felt like they had been glued to Crowley's considerable left-overs.  
"Oh... Well, in - in that case..." he muttered.  
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"Don't stop eating on my account," he said, nodding at Aziraphale's plate.  
"Oh, no, no, that's quite - I'm -" Aziraphale swallowed hard.  
"What?" Crowley asked, resting his elbows on the table. "Wha's wrong?"  
"Nothing," Aziraphale muttered. He cleared his throat. "I'm just surprised how fast you fill up," he said lightly.  
"Wouldn't really know where to put it," Crowley said disinterestedly.  
"No, I don't suppose you would..." Aziraphale said. Not exactly a problem he had. He sucked in his gut a little. It always looked much worse when he was sitting down... Or maybe it just looked less bad than it was when he was standing?  
"Aren't you gonna finish that?" Crowley asked, nodding at Aziraphale's plate. "I'm not the queen. You don't have to stop eating when I do."  
Aziraphale laughed weakly.  
"No, really, I'm fine," he said.  
"No you're not, you were expecting to eat that," Crowley insisted petulantly. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "You put that on your plate yourself," he said, nodding at the food.  
"I changed my mind," Aziraphale said evasively.  
"Nah. You're sat there, being all weird 'cos I eat like a snow bird," Crowley accused. "If you don't stop drawing attention to my eating habits, I'm going to be very very offended," he threatened, very obviously over-acting the entire sentence.  
Aziraphale gave an honest giggle this time.  
"My apologies," he said. "Where are my manners?" He quickly loaded up his fork and resumed eating.  
"Yeah. Where the fuck are they?" Crowley asked affrontedly, a smile tucking at the corners of his mouth as Aziraphale chewed.  
"You must be contagious," Aziraphale said after a few mouthfuls, as he dared pause his eating to help himself to a drink of wine.  
"Rubbing off on you, am I?" Crowley asked, voice silky smooth.  
Aziraphale nearly choked on his wine. 'Drowned in Merlot'. What a way to go.  
"Killing me, more like," he wheezed.  
Crowley snickered softly.  
"Yeah, well. Eat up first."

Aziraphale did, once he was done choking. The way Crowley's eyes seemed to follow the journey of the fork, from the plate, to Aziraphale's lips and back to the plate for a refill, was a tad unnerving, but Aziraphale decided that the look in them was more... curious than anything. Or perhaps curious was not quite the word but... there was no disapproval, that much was certain. Not even when Aziraphale decided to go for seconds after all. By the time he had finished that he was actually enjoying his food, despite the keen observance from the yellow eyes across the table.  
"All set?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale finally put his fork and knife neatly together and dumped his napkin on the plate.  
"Quite."  
"See, you were hungry," Crowley gloated. Why did he have to be so annoying??  
Aziraphale shot him a look.  
"Speaking of second helpings," he said. "Will you be returning to our poker nights in the future?"  
Asking about this was a terrible idea, frankly, but... Oh, what the Hell? Crowley made for good company and he had seemed to be enjoying himself at the game. All of... _this_ was Aziraphale's problem. It would be deeply unfair to exclude Crowley from socialising with his new neighbours, just because Aziraphale... Just because.  
Crowley drained his glass.  
"Yes! I will. Marjie asked me yesterday as she came tottering out to get her mail, dressed in everything bar the actual ostrich."  
Aziraphale giggled.  
"Marjie does... dress," he conceded. "She has some marvellous pieces in that wardrobe of hers. Her casual one," he quickly clarified. "I wouldn't really know about her... work uniforms."  
Crowley laughed.  
"But yeah, I'll be joining," he said, lolling his head to the side. "Thanks for the interest."  
Aziraphale's stomach did a very odd thing.  
"Ah, yes, well - Marjie would've been terrible disappointed if you didn't," he stammered. "Clearly. Hence why she asked too. I can only assume she was delighted that you said yes. Be a pity to deprive her of another occasion to flirt with you."  
Crowley pursed his lips.  
"You know that's just shits an' giggles, right?" he asked.  
Aziraphale did his best to not have any particular feeling about or reaction to those words.  
"I've told you before, who you flirt with isn't my business," he said firmly, avoiding Crowley's gaze. "But Marjie does need the fun," he added.  
"She really does, doesn't she?" Crowley tutted regretfully.  
"What she needs is for someone to... to come in and just sweep her off her feet. Properly. Flowers and chocolates and everything," Aziraphale said wistfully.  
Crowley raised a brow.  
" _She_ does?" he asked.  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Yes. Marjie," he said quizzically. "We were just talking about her?"  
"Ah, hm, yeah... Marjie..." Crowley hummed vaguely, eyes wandering about the sitting room.  
"Are you quite well?" Aziraphale asked. "Are you getting tired? I hope you haven't been sneaking wine without me noticing, you're driving home. I won't defend you if you actually hit someone," he warned sternly. "Arpee may be a pain the... jumper. But I won't aid and abet criminals."  
Crowley snorted.  
"One of the few priests who won't," he jabbed, uncalledly. "And don't worry - I'll be sure to let you know when I'm about to get sloppy drunk, so you can watch the show," he added with a wink, presumably to soften the blow of his snide.  
Aziraphale swallowed. "Some sins can't be absolved until we face the Lord," he said quietly.  
"No, but there seems to be some disagreement amongst you lot, on which ones that pertains to," Crowley said, voice cool once more.  
Oh, this was awful. They had had such a pleasant time. Why did he have to bring something like this up now? Aziraphale cleared his throat. To give his hands something to do, he fished out his watch.  
"Oh. I forgot Vespers," he noted, half-genuinely surprised. He stuffed the watch back into his pocket. "Perhaps I should... if you won't take too much offense..." he added before he could stop himself. If Crowley wanted to prickly...  
"Right. Yeah... Yeah, alright, s'getting late..." Crowley said, perhaps a little sheepishly. He shuffled out of his chair, pushing his glasses out of his hair and back onto his nose. "Thanks for the dinner or... like, whatever. D'you want... help or..?" He gestured to the dirty plates.  
Aziraphale rose too. "No no, it's fine... And yes. This was..." Nice? Yes, until a minute ago... En lieu of finishing the sentence he nodded, mostly to himself.  
He followed Crowley out to the front door, stood a few paces away as the redhead put on his shoes and jacket. As Crowley was about to leave, he turned in the doorway.  
"Look..." he started. "You're not... I mean, this was..." He wrinkled his nose in a terribly cute way. "I was gonna say 'fun' but, I mean, it was... better than instant noodles at my place?" he offered with an awkward gesture.  
Aziraphale swallowed and nodded, folding his hands in front of him.  
"Doesn't say much, I'd reckon," he said, eyes trained on his shoes.  
Crowley sighed.  
"Nah, but... gh." He started down the front steps but turned. "Look I didn't mean _you_. You're not... disagreeing - that doesn't make any sense..." he tapered off, muttering the last words to himself.  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"Aren't I?"  
Crowley looked up and a smirk crept onto his lips.  
"Well. Yeah. Okay. Good point..." He held Aziraphale's gaze for a moment. "Sleep tight, Ang - Aziraphale."  
Aziraphale raised his brows.  
"Goodnight, dear boy," he said pointedly, shutting the door a bit harder than strictly needed, and also a bit harder than what actually matched his mood.  
_Crowley and his silly nicknames..._ he thought with a smirk as he heard the Bentley take off outside.  
He hummed to himself as he put the stopper back in the wine bottle and carried the tableware to kitchen. As he scraped the remains of Crowley's meal into the bin he cringed a little at his own behaviour at dinner. Only one person, besides Crowley just now, had managed to coax that sort of reaction out of him since he left school, and Crowley had not seemed like he had been meaning to at all. So why would Aziraphale be so bothered how much he ate compared to Crowley? He should have figured that Crowley not be a bottomless pit. As energetic and vigorous as the ginger could be when inspiration struck him, and hard-working, really, at his shop, he also had a deep-seated bone-idleness about him, and given his figure - his slender, elegant, gorgeous -  
Aziraphale wheezed and hurriedly switched from humming 'Carmen' to the Rosaries instead. He needed to make up for missing Vespers. He often did, for a variety of reasons, but for dinner with Crowley... hardly suitable.  
He briskly rolled up his sleeves, carefully setting his cufflinks down on the counter, and got the tap running to let the water run warm and fished out the tub to do the washing up.  
"Ave Maria, gratia plena..."  
Something in the softness of the chant reminded him of something he thought he had briefly seen in Crowley's eyes as the redhead had teased and prodded at him to get him to finish his food. Something kind and... knowing. Always bloody _knowing things_. And making the whole dinner situation about himself rather than let focus land on Aziraphale... It had been quite sweet of him. 'Sweet' was the word to cover it. Or 'kind' perhaps. It surprised Aziraphale that those were words he would use to describe Crowley. Crowley was perceptive... He understood things very quickly. But 'to understand' and 'being understanding' were two very different things and Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had been surprisingly understanding. Perhaps there was more to the ginger than hangovers and uninvited drinks and snide remarks...  
 _I'm not going to talk about it._  
Crowley was keeping Aziraphale's secret, too. And he had asked for nothing in return. If he had wanted... something, surely tonight would have been the time for that. Frankly, Aziraphale had been expecting something like that when Crowley had showed up. Nothing concrete, perhaps, but... some sort of remark. A hint of some kind... But nothing. Crowley was keeping Aziraphale's secret and comforting him... all for nothing. For common human kindness that Crowley seemed to be entirely too slick and aloof for...  
This minor epiphany made absolutely nothing easier and that realisation in turn made Aziraphale's stomach drop. A... physical front like Crowley's was one thing. Making for interesting and challenging company was another. But that sort of outright kindness that served no purpose besides comforting someone else..!  
Aziraphale groaned as he shoved the plates into the drying rack.  
Why?? Why did Crowley have to be _all_ of those things?? Why could he not be a pretty arsehole with no substance and a bad attitude??  
There was of course still that... wink. Aziraphale pursed his lips as he dried off his hands and brought the pots of rice and curry into the kitchen to put the lids on them and put them away in the fridge. Was this just... a move? Towards... whatever that wink had been the herald of.  
It left Aziraphale inappropriately disappointed and hurt. But that had to be it. Crowley was just... pulling a move. Playing nice for the long haul. With a sigh, Aziraphale patted back to the sofa. He should pray. Properly pray. He had missed Vespers after all... for the sake of being charmed by a lapsed believer who was trying to... Well, whatever he was trying to do, it was not going to work. Aziraphale folded his hands firmly and closed his eyes.  
"Pater Nostre, qui est in Caelis..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ey yo, so like, LIFE, y'know what I'm saying?  
> I will try my DAMNEDEST to keep up with one weekly posting around Tuesday-Wednesday, as I have so far, but I make no promises. BUT! Dear reader, despair not. I have much too much already written for this to give up on the project. I will finish it. Just hang in there, should I fail to keep to my schedule.


	11. Chapter 11

_Tuesday 30st May_

"Flowers! For the lovely lady!" Crowley trilled in what was meant to be a merry voice, but even he could hear was more along the lines of gleefully disconcerting, as he shouldered his way through the door to the parish office, a crate of flower decorations in his arms.   
"I'm very flattered," Aziraphale said dryly from his desk where he was sitting with the most atrociously librarian-sexy pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. "but I think perhaps you've got the wrong number."  
"You're not miss Moneypenny," Crowley accusatorially, whining internally as the stupid, little glasses added themselves to his involuntary Aziraphale-themed wank bank. "Where's my hot delivery flirt gone?"  
"She's taking Adam to the dentist," Aziraphale explained. "He's having a stubborn baby tooth pulled, I gather. He's terribly excited about getting the gas."  
"Thereby forcing you to sit pretty on your little perch for once rather than pissing about all over the place," Crowley gloated as he sat the crate down on the floor by the old living room chair that sat across an equally old sofa in the corner.   
Aziraphale took off his glasses and neatly folded them.  
"Oh, if you'd be a dear and just pop those in the church for me, I'll get the door for you," he said quickly, smiling.  
Crowley returned the smile, but strainedly.  
"Yeah... Nah."  
Aziraphale had already reached the door, but stopped and frowned.   
"I'm... I'm sorry?"  
"You can put them in the church yourself," Crowley said, sauntering over. "I'll collect the crate with my next delivery." He snatched up the empty crate leaning against the wall by the door.   
Aziraphale stared.  
"No, really, I would be very grateful if you'd just - With the door and all..."  
"You can just wait 'till Moneypenny comes back," Crowley said. "They'll keep," he said, nodding at the flowers and taking off out the door, crate under his arm, towards the Bentley.  
Aziraphale gaped.  
"But can't you just -! Please?"  
Crowley set the crate down on a blanket that was spread out across the passenger's seat.   
"I," he said, slowly and clearly. "don't do churches."  
Aziraphale raised a brow.  
"I'm asking you to set up my flowers, not take communion," he quarreled.   
"I don't. Do. Churches," Crowley repeated firmly.   
"You mean, you don't... go into the building?" Aziraphale asked incredulously. "At all?"  
Crowley hummed and nodded adamantly.   
"Not at all."  
Aziraphale continued to gape.  
"Never?"  
Crowley groaned.  
"I realise you've made a career of it, but is it so hard to grasp that some of us -"  
Aziraphale held of a placating hand with an annoyed grimace.  
"Yes, alright, okay. Is it just Catholic ones or..?"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Nah, I don't discriminate. I don't go to Anglican ones either. Or any of the others."  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"I... Well. Alright... But... don't you have... friends?"  
Crowley's top lip curled up slightly.  
"Why?"  
"It's just that... friends have a tendency to... get married. Or die. Have you never had friends who... had use for a church?"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"There's usually an after party of some persuasion," he said disinterestedly.   
Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back and pressed his lips together.  
"Alright... A man's got to have a code, I suppose," he conceded.   
Crowley opened the car door.   
"He does. And mine's 'no churches'."  
He leaned on the open door. Aziraphale considered the flashy car.  
"You should get a proper van for your business," he suggested, to change the subject. "Something with more space. There's a second hand car dealer, just south of Norton. Might have something suitable. You could have a logo put on the side and you'd be good to go."  
Crowley sniffed.  
"That's not a bad idea... I might go check that out," he conceded, nodding. "Could you plot the address into my phone?"  
"I don't have the address..." Aziraphale said apologetically. "But you go to Norton, and then by the soap shop, you turn right and keep going for a few streets until you get to this weird little street that's kind of hard to spot and then you go down that one until you're out of town and then for about 2 miles until you get to a sign that may not be entire visible through the trees, by a dirt road and at the end of that, you'll find the car dealership."  
Crowley smiled, while his brain screamed 'what?!'.  
"A'ight. Cheers. I think I'll have time to go this afternoon."  
Aziraphale lit up.  
"Oh! If you're going that way anyway... There's a self-service place that sells fruit and veg on the way. You can't miss it, bright red thing by the side of the road out by Sessile Farm. It's just outside Norton, you can't miss it."  
Crowley cocked a brow.  
"Are you asking me to do your shopping for you?"  
Aziraphale turned bright pink.  
"No! No, just.. if you'd kindly see if they've put out the sign for peas yet..?" he fished.  
"You do remember that bit where I'm dyslexic, right?" Crowley asked dryly. "I can barely read as it is, I can't read shit when I'm just zooming past in the car."  
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"If the bit written in green isn't crossed out with tape, they have peas," he said. He ducked his head slightly. "I am aware that you face... certain challenges," he pouted.  
Crowley bopped his head.  
"Yeah. A'ight. Fair 'nough. Green. Luckily for you, I'm not also colour blind," he said, trying his best to sound surly and missing by a mile.   
Aziraphale giggled. The sound alone could have kept Crowley fed for a week.   
"So, it's like... peas in the pod or..?" he asked, just to draw out the conversation a little.  
Aziraphale nodded with a look in his eyes like Christmas had come early.  
"I do so love fresh peas," he said wistfully.   
Crowley hummed casually.   
"Wanna tag along?" he suggested with feigned disinterest. "We could stop to get you peas and you could amuse yourself with those while I tinker-tailor out some rusty old heap."  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"Oh, but I..." he pointed back over his shoulder and even shot the office building a contrite look. "I was really meant to... be working..."  
"How much work can you possibly have to do?" Crowley pried. "This here calm little neck of the woods, surely people can't have that much use for a priest?"  
"I have Confirmations on Sunday!" Aziraphale said affrontedly. "Or... they'll be going to Oxford, that is, but still - We're having one last prep meeting on Saturday to make sure everyone's ready!"  
Crowley pulled a face.  
"How hard can that be? You must've done that loads of times! Same procedure as every year, James!"  
"I also have to set up those flowers since you won't do it," Aziraphale groused.  
"Moneypenny does that so well," Crowley assured him. "C'mon. I need help finding my way to that place anyway. Your directions were shit."  
Aziraphale glowered at him. Then with a hmph he turned on his heel and marched back into the office building. He returned a moment later with a note pad and a pen and closed the door behind him. Crowley fully expected to be drawn a map as equally useful as the directions, but instead Aziraphale strutted up to the passenger's side door and got in. He stared up at Crowley, lips pursed and a eyes wide and impatient.  
"Well? Are we going then?"   
Crowley slowly let a grin spread.  
"Yeh. Yup. We are. We so are."  
He hopped in as Aziraphale clipped himself into his seatbelt.  
"Goodness, this is modern," he said, looking around. "CD player and everything."  
"Yeah, I know it's a bit lame, but I've just never found the time to send her in for an update on that front. Don't like being away from the old gal."  
Aziraphale giggled.   
"I've never understood people like you and your cars," he said.   
"I can imagine," Crowley said, starting up the engine. "I've seen the heap on wheels you call transportation."  
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air, very visibly holing himself far above Crowley's childish insults.  
"Aren't you going to put on a seatbelt?" he asked as Crowley turned the car around.  
"Nah. Left or right?"  
"Righ -!!"  
Aziraphale gave a yelp bordering on a scream, as Crowley pulled out of the yard and tore down the street, a clung to anything within reach.  
"Slow - slow down!"   
"No way, I gotta get this done and get back to my shop. Only meant to be popping out shortly," Crowley cackled.  
Aziraphale winced.  
"M-modern car like this -" he stammered, quickly going paler and paler. "shouldn't it... shouting at you in some way for not wearing a seatbelt?"  
"That's the beauty of restoring an old car," Crowley grinned. "You get to decide what gadgets you want put in."  
Aziraphale whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. As Crowley peered at him, he saw his lips move slightly.  
"Are you praying?!" he sputtered incredulously.   
"I want to _live_!" Aziraphale snapped.   
"Oh, come off it!" Crowley groaned. "I'm a very capable driver! You'll be fine! Stop being so touchy or there'll be no peas!"

There were, through no fault of Crowley's, no peas at the self-serve box. Aziraphale's disappointment was palpable.  
"There'll be peas eventually," Crowley groused, completely unable to cope with how desperately he wanted to right this great wrong. "Quit sulking. It's just too early yet, it's only May still."  
 _Come on, Angel, sulk over something I can fix for you, I can't take that let-down little face.  
_ Aziraphale was undeterred by this.   
"I suppose it's my own fault," he said, with not-at-all-brave suffering in his voice. "I got my hopes up... Shouldn't have been so silly."  
"It's only _peas_!" Crowley moaned. Unable to think of anything else to distract Aziraphale, he fired up the engine. It worked. The sad little potato gave a startled bark and got busy holding on for dear life.  
"You're rotten as heck and so is your driving!" he cried, grappling at the door.   
Crowley snickered.  
"Aw, c'mon, see it as an adventure!"  
"Now I know how Bilbo Baggins felt!" Aziraphale snipped.  
"So, you'll grow from it as a person and eventually come to enjoy the excitement," Crowley concluded.  
Aziraphale looked like he was never _ever_ going to 'enjoy the excitement' of Crowley's driving, but at least he was too busy fuming to be frightened - or upset about the peas. He had opened his mouth to tell Crowley what for but then began flailing his hands instead.  
"Oh! It's there! It's - EEK!!"  
Crowley tore the Bentley to the right, down a dirt road, the centrifugal force nearly knocking Aziraphale sideways. With screeching breaks, they reached a yard surrounded by weathered garage buildings and rusty security fences. Several old cars were parked out front, looking like they were about to put down roots.  
Crowley strutted out of his car while Aziraphale sat frozen in his seat, chest heaving and left lower eyelid twitching.   
Some young... girl? - Guy? - whatever, in a dirty boiler suit came trudging out, wiping their hands on an equally dirty rag that did nothing to actually clean their hands, a dead smile blooming under equally dead eyes.  
"How may I help you, sir?"  
 _You're a creepy little shit, aren't you?_ Crowley thought.   
"Hi there. I'm looking for a van of some persuasion or 'nother, for deliveries."  
A dirty hand gestured towards the fenced-in parking lot off to the right.  
"Come right this way, sir."  
Crowley would have lied if he said he was glad to be left alone with this eerie critter. He held up a hand and sauntered around to the passenger's side and knocked on the window.   
"You wanna come?" he asked Aziraphale through the glass.  
Aziraphale looked entirely disinclined.   
"Oh, nono, I'll, er... I'll just stay here, it's fine." He held up his note pad and pen - it had little, stupid angel wings on the end - as if they could ward off Satan himself. "I'll write me a little list of things to think of for Saturday."  
Crowley did notice the look Aziraphale was shooting the car dealer.   
"Good morning, Father," the car dealer crowed enigmatically, popping up by Crowley's side, making no noise despite the gravel of the yard rendering it a logical impossibility.   
The blond smiled stiffly and waved from his safe spot inside the car.   
"Hello there, Chalky..."  
Crowley shot Aziraphale one last look.  
"Right. Lead the way to whatever prospects you reckon you have," he said casually to the still-smiling dealer, burying his hands in his pockets.   
The car dealer smiled. Just smiled and smiled and smiled...   
"Gladly."

Crowley had found a van, and that at break-neck speed too, eager to get away from the unwavering smile and unblinking eyes of the car dealer. The parking lot had seemed impossibly dirty, even for second-hand car lot and despite not recalling brushing against anything, Crowley's Diesel jeans now had several rust spots on them, more and more appearing every time he looked down at his thighs as he drove back to Lower Tadfield.   
"You might've told me the car dealer was something straight out of a horror film," he groused.   
Aziraphale winced.  
"I haven't been there since I bought my own car 15 years ago, I'd forgotten, honestly," he said, hands fiddling. He frowned to himself. "I think I looked at some of those cars parked out front, back then..."  
Crowley snorted.   
"I believe you."  
As they once again passed the self-serve box, Aziraphale sighed resentfully.  
"Oh, stop it, you," Crowley sighed. "It's not the box's fault!"  
Aziraphale pouted.  
"Just let me have my disappointment in peace," he sulked. He was still sulking, in what he presumably - mistakenly - assumed to be a dignified way, which was nonetheless a little cute, when they drove back into the village.   
"I'll take you back to the rectory," Crowley said. "And then I gotta go to the shop and email a picture of a logo to Rusty McCreep..."  
"Oh, it's fine, just go straight to the shop, I can walk back," Aziraphale said, still with a bravely suffering look on his face. "I need a smoke after that..." he groaned.   
Crowley nodded.  
"Yeah, a fag sounds good right about now," he agreed. "Yard?"  
Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, ever so adorably.   
"I should be getting back..." he said.  
Crowley clicked his tongue.  
"It's almost four. You can call it a day, surely," he argued.   
"We don't close 'till quarter to five," Aziraphale said. "Sometimes later, by prior arrangement."  
"And do you have any 'prior arrangements' on for this afternoon?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air.  
"A priest is always on call," he said.   
"Don't you have a mobile?"   
Aziraphale's eyes widened comically. He patted down the pockets of his jacket.  
"Idon't think I - Oh! No, wait, here it is!" he sighed, hand on his inner pocket.   
"So what's the problem?" Crowley pried. He fished out his own phone and leaned slightly back to snap a picture of the shop sign with the logo above the door. "C'mon, you can help me with my spelling, I have a couple of requests for my van."  
"Shouldn't you be opening the shop, though?" Aziraphale asked.   
"Getting that van done up is also work," Crowley said, strutting up the front steps and holding the door open for Aziraphale, leaving his car parked in the most abhorrent fashion with two wheels on the pavement.  
"Alright, but just the spelling," Aziraphale said sternly.  
They sat down on the back steps in the yard, leaving the shop sign flipped to 'closed', each with a cigarette and worked their way through a list of specifications for the fixing-up needed for the van, like a new coat of paint and a size and colour for the logo - Black van, red logo.   
"Aaand - send," Crowley announced.   
Aziraphale got up and delicately brushed dirt off the backside of his trousers.  
"I better go then," he said.   
Crowley saw absolutely no dire need for that but had no more clever excuses for the time being, so he hummed in agreement and got up as well, slowly following Aziraphale inside.   
"D'you get a lot of those self-serve thingies with old biscuit tins for the money 'round here?" he asked.  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"I wouldn't say 'a lot', but there are a few... Fire wood, field produce... Eggs."  
"And that's actually possible?" Crowley asked. "They don't get robbed?"  
Aziraphale smirked.  
"I remember when I first came up here from London," he said. "I was shocked and delighted to learn that the world isn't all concrete and cynicism."  
Crowley hummed again.  
"Yeah... No shit..."  
"I do wish they'd had my peas though..." Aziraphale said sadly.   
"We'll go some other time," Crowley promised before he could stop himself, because he _would_ in fact get Aziraphale his damn peas, come Hell or high water. "In a bit, when the peas have had a chance to actually grow."  
Aziraphale lit up like the sun. He opened his mouth to say something when there was a knock on the shop door. Outside stood Moneypenny's son's lanky friend, peering in through the window. Aziraphale shot Crowley a look, then scuttled over and opened the door.  
"Brian? Is something the matter?"  
The boy trudged in.  
"Hi there, Father A." He looked past Aziraphale to Crowley by the counter. "Are you closed?" he asked.  
Crowley gestured to the door.  
"I think that's what the sign says," he said. "But I couldn't be sure."  
Aziraphale peeked at the side of the sign that face outwards.  
"It is," he informed sincerely.  
Crowley wanted to knock his head against the counter... and kiss the bloody moron.   
Brian looked disappointed.  
"Oh. Are you gonna be staying closed?" he asked.   
"I was planning to," Crowley shrugged. As the boy continued to look disappointed, he cursed his curiosity. "Why?"   
The kid stuck his hand in his jeans pocket.  
"I wanted to buy Mum some flowers. It's her birthday. I have money!" He held out his hands, full of loose change. "But if you're closed..."  
Crowley groaned.  
"Something, something, prior arrangements..." he muttered with a nose wrinkle, shooting Aziraphale an unseen, but somehow still plainly obvious, look from behind his sunglasses. "What sorta flowers 'you lookin' for?"  
Brian bit his lip and looked down at the coins in his hands.  
"Dunno... I have twelve quid and 50 p," he said,. "What'll that get me?"  
"What kind of flowers does your ma like?" Crowley asked loudly startling the kid into looking back at him.  
"Dunno... Orange ones, I guess?" Brian tried. "She likes orange... and leopard print? But I don't think there are leopard print flowers. I've never heard of them anyway..."  
Crowley smirked.  
"I could've set you up with some spotted orchids if I'd had any in, but sadly I hadn't foreseen that need," he said, lounging against the counter like nothing really mattered.   
"Really? You can get them with leopard spots?" Brian asked. "Mum has orchids, from the supermarket, but they're just sorta purple-y..." He peered at a bucket of small, pre-made bouquets. None of them were particularly orange, Aziraphale noted, but the little sign on the bucket said '10 £'. "Could I have one of those?"  
Crowley quirked a brow and snorted.  
"Nah."   
Brian looked up at Aziraphale, confused, who in turn frowned at Crowley, but the redhead simply... melted off the counter and started rummaging about, plucking flowers and leaves out of different buckets.   
"But I can afford those," Brian said questioningly. "They're only ten quid..."  
Crowley ignored him, deftly cramming the flowers together and tying them up with a piece of straw and trimming the ends before wrapping them in cling film.   
"So's this," he said, as he wrapped the - _very_ orange - bouquet up in cellophane.   
Brian beamed.  
"Really? That looks super nice!"  
"D'you want a card?" Crowley asked, holding up a plain white piece of shiny card stock.   
"How much are those?"  
"Free, if you write it yourself," Crowley said with a shrug.   
Brian dropped his money onto the counter and counted out two pounds fifty and pushed the rest of the coins towards Crowley.   
"Can I write it here, so it can be a surprise for Mum?"   
"You'll have plenty of time," Aziraphale assured him. "She doesn't get off from work 'till half five. You'll have plenty of time to get home. Brian's mother is Laura, from the hair dresser's down the street," he explained to Crowley who hummed in reply and pushed a pen, sticky with dried-up flower sap, towards Brian. The boy scribbled something onto the card and let Crowley place it in the flowers.  
"Cheers, Mr C! Mum's gonna love these!"   
"Are they from your brother as well?" Aziraphale asked.  
Brian shrugged.   
"Nah. Dad got her something from all of us... But she was complaining, a while back, that she never got flowers... So I thought it'd be nice for her birthday." He accepted the flowers from Crowley and looked them over for a second before scurrying off. "I better get home with these! Thanks again!"  
Crowley waved a graciously dismissive hand.   
"This is a flower shop. I sell flowers."  
"Make sure to tell your mother many happy returns," Aziraphale smiled at Brian.  
Crowley snickered.  
"Yeah. Tell her the dreamy florist said hi."  
Aziraphale tutted and shook his head while Brian laughed and ran off, clinging to his flowers.   
"That was an inordinate amount of very nice flowers for just ten quid?" Aziraphale asked once the door had closed itself behind the boy.   
Crowley pulled some sort of face, made some sort of noise.  
"Not that far past," he said.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"That was 25 pounds, at least," he argued, surveying the contents of the buckets that Crowley had been plucking flowers from.   
Crowley made that noise again.   
"Yeah, well, whatever. Kid's a strong haggler."  
"He didn't haggle at all -" Aziraphale started.  
"Weren't you supposed to be hurrying back to work?" Crowley asked abruptly. "Or like... finding out when peas usually... mature or whatever it is peas do?"  
"Ripen," Aziraphale corrected. "Wine matures. Produce ripens," he explained while privately wondering... Taking him for peas in exchange for directions and potentially the joy of knowing that the parish priest was skiving off - that was one thing. Potentially. It could also be... something else. But Aziraphale had to give Crowley the benefit of the doubt. Especially in the light of the little... dinner incident and how Crowley had handled that. But now there was also a thing with a kid and discounted flowers...  
"That was sweet of you," he said. "Doing that for Brian. Money's been a bit tight for them in recent years... A bad flooding in the house that insurance for some reason refused to cover and then their car gave up and then Callum - that's Brian's father - lost his job... And Brian's only ten, mind. It probably took him ages to save up that money."  
"Yeah, I could tell..." Crowley said. "You can always tell with kids when they're a little too aware how short a pound will stretch these days."  
"And then in come you, completely muddling the concepts," Aziraphale teased gently. "D'you know, Crowley," he pondered out loud. "I'm starting to think that you might actually be quite a nice -"  
A lot of things happened at once. The roll of straw string that Crowley had been fiddling with rolled onto the floor and Aziraphale found himself trapped by the lapels and manhandled backwards agains a shelf, nearly nose-to-nose with a snarling Crowley.   
"Shut it! I'm not nice!" Crowley growled. "I'm never nice! Nice is a four-letter word! I'll not have you go around telling people I'm 'nice'! Nice is for suckers!"  
Aziraphale stared, slightly cross-eyed, at his own startled reflection in Crowley's dark glasses. And then he started further below, at Crowley's lips, pulled tight in a furious grimace, mere inches from his own. His shock was receding but somehow his heart was still pumping at 100 miles an hour, but before he could really make process any of that, he was startled once more, along with Crowley, by the shrill ringing of the shop phone.  
For a moment the thing just rang, as both men stood frozen, Aziraphale's hands grasping Crowley's skinny wrists and Crowley still gripping Aziraphale's lapels tightly. Then the redhead shook himself out with one last look at Aziraphale. As he moved away to answer the phone, Aziraphale suddenly felt cold and realised their fronts had been almost flush, not just their noses. To distract himself from that thought, he began fussing with his rumbled clothes while Crowley answered the phone.  
"Moneypenny, hi there. Yep. He's here." He hung up the phone. "It was your office wife. She wants you to know that she's going home for the day and that she would've liked it if you'd left a note. And she put up the flowers."  
Aziraphale felt his cheek go pink.   
"Perhaps I should be getting her some flowers too..." he muttered, shuffling his feet.   
Crowley held his arms out wide.  
"You're in luck!" he said. "We even deliver." He snorted. "Heck, if it's for Moneypenny, I'll even do a kiss-o-gram for an extra fiver."  
"You'll do that, but you won't set foot in my church to drop off a crate," Aziraphale bickered, still embarrassed about slinking off like that. And... flustered.  
Crowley smiled, a bright, charming thing that quickly took on a dangerously saccharine edge.  
"And I never will," he said, leaning on his elbows on the counter. "And that's a promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is a bit of a bitch and I'm terribly sorry that I'm late with this weeks update. I hope you enjoy it!


	12. Chapter 12

_Wednesday 7th June_

Aziraphale was not entirely pleased. The day after his little run-off with Crowley, he had asked Deidre, first thing, why on Earth she had phoned the flower shop of all places, looking for him. It turned out that she had in fact also tried Marjorie's house, but her second guess had been the flower shop and _frankly -_! Alright, so it had perhaps been partially Aziraphale's own fault - his mobile phone had been off, it had turned out - but somehow thinking that Aziraphale skiving off from work in the company of _Crowley_. _That_ had been all Deidre's own idea and Aziraphale did not at all care for it.   
"It was just a hunch," Deidre had said, struggling to hide her smile. "The flowers were there and you were gone."  
Aziraphale had argued that he might have been called away for work, urgently, and that that was why his phone was off and he had left no note. There was nothing to actually suggest -  
"Your car was still there," Deidre had argued. "Besides, it was just a feeling I had."  
'A feeling'. That Aziraphale had snuck off with the florist during working hours. He did _not_ appreciate the... implications. Despite _absolutely nothing_ happening. At least, nothing beyond Aziraphale being a naughty boy and slinking off when he should be working... He had argued that him not taking his car was hardly a lead to suggest the involvement of _Crowley_ , but Deidre had shrugged him off.   
"If a hunch actually has something to back it, it's not a hunch anymore," she had countered. For a long moment, Aziraphale had seen with striking clarity where Adam had gotten his quietly argumentative tendencies from. "And Adam said Crowley came around to your place a little while back. So I thought you might be... talking."  
She was too discreet and professional to say things like 'I thought he had need for a priest and you were helping him through a crisis' and he _knew_ this, but the ambiguity of that last statement had felt like nails on a chalk board to Aziraphale, who had simply hummed, with as little huffing in it as he humanly could muster, and had thankfully been saved by the phone ringing. It was the solemn consequences of this phone call that he was now preparing for;   
He was in the church, setting up the old, creaky foldable bier. One of the wheels was being a little brat and Aziraphale utilised the opportunity to take out of a bit of his frustration, giving it a good kick. The wheel turned and spun around, doing its level best to at least give him a small sense of satisfaction. Aziraphale hummed pleasedly and tottered off to fetch the nice new cloth he had recently received in the mail to cover the rusty bier up. He was trying to neatly open the plastic bag without tearing it, so that the cloth could be returned to it afterwards, and perhaps be less dusty the next time he needed it, when there was a knock. On the church door. Who knocked on a church door in the middle of the day?   
He stuck the bagged cloth under one arm and hurried down to open up. It had to be serious when someone was _knocking_ -   
As had been the thing when someone knocked on doors at odd times recently, it was in fact not serious - it was only Crowley, who was stood outside with a crate of decorations in his arms. After the both of them receiving phone calls regarding the funeral, they had agreed that the new flower decorations could wait until Thursday, since Crowley had a massive wedding order for Friday - and now, also a number of orders from different people for the funeral.   
"Crowley?"  
"Yeah. Hi." Crowley was squirming and wiggling on the spot, grimacing. "There was no one in the office," he ground out. "Or at your place... Do you people ever actually work or do you just muck about?" he groused.   
Aziraphale raised a brow.   
"Deidre had a doctor's appointment and I'm setting up for the funeral," he said primly. He watched Crowley pull a face and hop from one foot to the other. "Ha very ha," he said tersely, pursing his lips. "What's wrong, dear boy? Standing to close to consecrated ground?"   
Crowley hissed.  
"M'no' pissin' 'round," he ground out through gritted teeth. "My eczema is acting up. My feet are burning!"   
"Oh!" Aziraphale horrifiedly ditched the cloth on top of the font of holy water by the door and grabbed the crate of flowers. "Goodness, that sounds unpleasant."  
"You don't wanna know," Crowley moaned, limping back towards his new van. It had been delivered, logo on the side and all, just two days earlier, absolutely reeking of something very chemical and deeply unhealthy, but ready to serve.   
Aziraphale ditched the crate of flowers on the floor.  
"I suspect you have some sort of medication for it?" he asked. "Oh, no, what a silly question, I'm sure you have something for it, why wouldn't you -"  
"I do, but it's not a one minute treatment, is it?" Crowley sneered.   
Aziraphale grimaced apologetically.   
"Do you have more work for the day?"  
Crowley laughed hollowly, climbing into the van.  
"You've no idea. I'm absolutely drowning in funeral wreaths. And that bloody wedding on Friday. If I get to bed before midnight, I'll consider myself lucky."  
Aziraphale cringed.   
"I think I may have something topical in my medicine cabinet... For mosquito bites and such. Quite strong stuff, I react rather badly to that sort of thing," he explained. "Perhaps that could numb some of the discomfort, if you're going to be on your feet all evening? Surely you'll get more done if you're not squirming in pain and discomfort," he argued as Crowley looked like he was about to cite being too busy to have time to dilly-dally.  
Crowley pursed his lips.   
"Yeah, a'ight." He hopped out of the van, hissing loudly as his feet hit the ground.   
"Oh, nono, stay here, I'll bring it out -"  
"I'll be dead before I'm seen in public looking like that," Crowley growled, stalking ahead of Aziraphale, barging through the front door and throwing himself down on the sofa.   
"I'll be right back!" Aziraphale said, hurrying upstairs. he rummaged desperately through his medicine cabinet and scurried back downstairs, tube of cream in hand.   
Crowley was still on the sofa. He had pulled off his shoes and socks and his feet looked absolutely -   
"Gross, right?" the redhead said with sardonic enthusiasm.  
"Oh, goodness, Lord, that looks -"  
Absolutely awful, was the only real way Aziraphale could describe it. The skin all over Crowley's feet was completely blistered and bright red, with rings of flakey, dry skin everywhere.  
"It looks fucking disgusting," Crowley muttered, accepting the tube of cream. There was put-down undertone in his voice that made Aziraphale's heart ache a little, like he felt genuinely repulsive in this state.   
"Empty that, if you need to," he offered, as Crowley unscrewed the cap. "I can get another one, it's no trouble."  
"I'll pay you back," Crowley said as he carefully started applying the cream.   
Aziraphale waved him off.  
"Don't be ridiculous. It's prescription anyway." He considered the blistered sole of Crowley's left foot. "What brings it about?"  
"Stress," Crowley sighed standoffishly.   
Aziraphale tutted.   
"Oh, dear. If you're that busy, you should've just phoned and told me to come pick up the flowers myself."  
"You have your stuff you're supposed to be doing. My stuff is to do flowers and deliver them," Crowley said tightly.   
"No, but really, you're not feeling at all well!" Aziraphale argued. "If you'd just told me, I would've gladly -"  
"Yeah well, maybe I just didn't feel like sharing my medical issues with my neighbours," Crowley cut him off, switching to his other foot.   
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Oh, _that_ will share itself, in the dead of night, eventually, whether you like it or not," he said with a huff of terse laughter. "Things sort of... seep out through the cracks in a place like this. Everyone knows everyone's business." He cocked his head and raised a brow, staring into mid-distance. "Or at least enough of it that they think they know it all..."  
Crowley stopped rubbing on cream to look at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses.  
"Okay, woah there, Barnaby, that was ominous as fuck."  
Aziraphale perked up.   
"Oh, you watch that too?" he asked excitedly.   
Crowley groaned, in exasperation rather than in pain, and screwed the cap back on the tube. About a quarter of the contents were left.   
"I think it's already kicking in," he said, wiggling his toes.  
"Oh yes, it's the good stuff," Aziraphale agreed with a nod. "Just wait another minute and you'll be feeling much better."  
"Who're you burying anyway?" Crowley asked.   
Aziraphale had not considered the fact that Crowley did, in fact, not be actually _read_ any billing information or names for sashes or cards that he was given.  
"Our local plumber, Ron Ormerod," he said.   
"Ormerod..." Crowley repeated. "Must've been awfully popular. The bastard..." he added under his breath.  
"Yes. Lovely man, really. Quite a distinct voice..." Aziraphale pondered. "Him and his wife both..." he added under his breath.  
"I had a local plumber with an... unusual voice do my cottage up," Crowley recalled. "The phone call when he wanted to discuss the quote was... an experience."  
Aziraphale nodded solemnly.  
"Sounds like Ron. Lord rest his soul."  
"What got him?" Crowley asked, prodding carefully at his left foot with his right toe.  
"Oh, it was tragic!" Aziraphale gasped. "He was hit by a lorry. Up on the big road. They think he had stopped by the side of the road to look at a flat tyre and then... Everyone thought it would be the dicky ticker that would do it for him... Wicked voices even say he stepped in front of that lorry on purpose, but I doubt it, honestly."  
Crowley snorted, trying to pull on his socks without taking off too much topical cream.   
"You'd have to, wouldn't you? Or you wouldn't be burying him."   
"It's nothing like that," Aziraphale tutted. "It's just that Ron was far too nice and considerate a person to do something like that. He would never have scarred some poor driver like that, it must've been an accident." He leaned in slightly. "But between the two of us, he's probably on the other side of the veil, sighing with relief that he won't have to listen to Brenda anymore..."  
Crowley cocked a brow, stuffing his feet back in his shoes.  
"Have I met her?" he asked.  
"You've probably heard her," Aziraphale sniffed. "Could make a drill sergeant curtesy, she could."  
"Oh shit, _her._ She phoned in an order for flowers. And then called to check up on it. Five times. Not the trusting sort," Crowley groaned. "Which reminds me, I presume the blushing bride has been in touch with you as well?"   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and ran a hand over his face. The bride-to-be for Friday's ballyhoo was not at all pleased about poor old Ron's funeral. She had called Aziraphale, in absolute hysterics, because it meant that the flowers for her wedding would have to be put up Friday morning rather than Thursday afternoon.  
"Lord give me strength!" he complained. "She phoned you as well?"  
"She did," Crowley said. "In an absolutely frenzy, demanding that I talk some sense into you..."  
"What in the World does she expect me to do?" Aziraphale howled. He forced himself to regain some composure. "Honestly. Some people..."  
"I think she reckons you should pull a miracle and make the dead rise," Crowley snickered.  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue in annoyance.  
"Really. You get what you pay for and at that price she can, in fact, not expect miracles." He quirked a brow. "Let alone one that may or may not herald Armageddon."   
Crowley actually laughed at that and Aziraphale was inordinately pleased to have caused that.   
"You could always bill her extra," the ginger suggested.   
"We have a set rate," Aziraphale tutted, trailing after Crowley to the front door.   
Crowley shrugged.  
"Eh, but, y'know... Unforeseen stuff," he said innocently. "I had a clause for that put in the conditions that people sign when they order from me."   
"For unforeseen expenses?"  
"Yeah. Up to fifteen percent. If certain flowers are suddenly in low supply and the prices go up or something," Crowley said innocently. Then his face turned grim. "Or if the client's a pain in the arse..." he sneered.  
"You can't bill people for being annoying!" Aziraphale sputtered, horrified - and a little delighted.   
"It's my shop," Crowley said. "And it's in the terms and conditions. They agree, they pay."  
Aziraphale gently whacked Crowley on the shoulder.  
"You horror!" he tittered.   
Crowley turned and looked down at him, face unreadable. The small entry way of the rectory suddenly felt even smaller. Neither of them had actually brought up the... grabbing incident at the shop. It seemed like something they ought to perhaps discuss but for the time being, it seemed they had silently agreed to let it be. Some sort of chord had clearly been struck in order for Crowley to act out like that and Aziraphale had flat-out given up on analyzing how he felt about the whole thing, since what he had found upon first introspection had not been at all... something he had the headspace to work with.   
Aziraphale swallowed and looked up into Crowley's dark glasses.   
"Best of luck with the rest of the work," he said, trying his best to not sound as... timid as he was feeling right now.   
Crowley snorted softly. He was standing awfully close, Aziraphale thought.  
"Yeah. Thanks for the cream..."   
He looked down at Aziraphale, who felt absolutely ready to faint, for a long moment, then he smirked and slipped out of the door.   
Aziraphale watched the redhead take off in his van, while his heart was pounding in his chest. Then he shook himself up with a tut. He had things he needed to do. He needed to add the finishing touches to his homily for tomorrow and there was also still the bier to cover up and the flowers, still in their crate. Plenty of things to keep him busy.

Mass was over. Everything was ready for the funeral. Only thing out of the place, Aziraphale realised, was the crate from last week, that Crowley had forgotten to take with him in his haste to get back to work while his feet were numbed. Aziraphale had decided to have dinner at the Tree - because the bothersome bride had called again, ten minutes before Mass was due to begin, and with how patient Aziraphale had been, while also making it to Mass on time, he definitely deserved a treat -and if he was going to the pub he would be passing right by Crowley's shop and it would be easy as nothing for him to take the bike bring the crate with him. On the off chance that Crowley had managed to finish everything, the crate would be fine sitting on the front step for the night. He decided to bring this day's crate too and the rest of the numbing cream and so, once out of his vestments, wrangled them both onto the bike as best as he could and set off to the flower shop.  
The sign on the door was flipped to 'closed', as it would be at this time, but the lights were still on inside. Aziraphale grabbled with the crates and managed to sneak a pinky finger through the handle of the door to open it. The bell jangled. Immediately the door to the backroom was flung open.  
"I'M CL - Oh." Crowley dropped a hip and cocked his head, clearly baffled at the sight of Aziraphale standing there, arms full of crates, shouldering the door to avoid being caught in it. A surprised smile lit up his sharp features. "Hi there."  
Aziraphale muscled his way inside and let the door slam shot, setting the crates down - or rather, setting down one and dropping the other with a right racket. He felt ridiculous, standing there, probably bright pink and with a plastic crate nearly fallen on his foot while Crowley was leaning against the door frame, an extra shirt button undone and hair fetchingly ruffled in a way that made you think less of an overworked florist and more of... other things that might leave one with ruffled hair.   
"You erh - you forgot your crate," he said. "because of your poor feet, I imagine," he quickly clarified. "I thought I would... drop them off. Oh, and see if you needed the rest of the topical cream." He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the tube.  
Crowley hummed.  
"That's very kind," he drawled measuredly. "I'm sort of numb to it at this point. By the time I made it back here from yours I could barely feel my feet at all, it was brilliant. It was like being on morphine from the ankles down."  
Aziraphale giggled, unsure what to really say to that. He had never actually been on morphine. He had never had so much as a broken toe, let alone surgery.   
"Have you eaten?" he asked, rubbing his palms against the sides of his sweater and side-stepping to get away from the crates. "Or perhaps it's more relevant to ask if you're anywhere near finished?"  
"I am," Crowley announced self-satisfiedly. "finished with the orders for the funeral. All that's left is delivery tomorrow morning."  
"Oh, if you could come in at around eleven, that would be quite fine," Aziraphale asked.   
Crowley nodded. Shielded as they were behind his dark glasses, Aziraphale could still feel them raking over him.   
"You're still working on the wedding decorations, I take it?" he asked, after clearing his throat awkwardly. Why he did not simply bugger off to the pub and mind his own business over a steak and kidney pie was frankly beyond him, rather than stand around here, blushing profusely and feebly asking questions. It was a completely ridiculous thing to do...  
"I'm done for the day," Crowley said, stretching like a cat in a sunbeam and rubbing his neck.   
"Fancy going to the pub for dinner then?" Aziraphale blurted out.   
It must have been obvious that he panicked as soon as the words had left him, because Crowley gave him a curious look. The redhead slowly stalked closer and swept down to the pick up the crates.  
"Sure," he said lowly as he straightened his back, once again awfully close to Aziraphale, who stood riveted to the spot, wringing his hands. "In a minute though. Have something to show you. C'mon." He nodded his head towards to the back door. "We can have a smoke while we wait."  
 _Wait? Wait for what?  
_ Aziraphale tottered along after Crowley, who carelessly ditched the crates on the floor of the backroom and strolled onward, out into the yard.  
"Ah! Yer honour! And the reverend Father too, good evening!"  
Aziraphale quirked a brow. In the yard behind the small row of shops, none other than sergeant Shadwell was hard at work - or well, at work at least - along with a young lanky fellow with glasses and an awkward look on his face.  
"Nearly done, yer honour," Shadwell continued in a tone that held just the slightest hint of stilted desperation to impress.   
"Nearly done with... what exactly?" Aziraphale inquired, fishing his cigarette case out of his pocket.   
"See," Crowley said, voice muffled as he lit up a cigarette of his own and held the lighter up for Aziraphale. "I got an idea." He blew to a puff of smoke. "I've been busy as fuck, right?"  
"Clearly. Your feet are -"  
Crowley nudged Aziraphale, rather hard.  
"Yeah, that. And while I've been trying to make a funeral wreath for just about every bog that man ever fixed, people have kept coming in for random, stupid shit too!"  
Aziraphale raised a brow.  
"You mean, you've had... customers?"  
"Yeah!" Crowley sputtered with indignation, smoke billowing about his face. "A bloody nuisance is what that is. So I'm thinking; 'If only I didn't have to deal with _people_ ' and then in my darkest hour of being absolutely ready to go on a murder spree," Crowley grabbed Aziraphale with an arm around his shoulder and leaned in as if showing Aziraphale some sort of specter of genius that only Crowley could see. "you came to me, speaking words of wisdom: Peas."  
Aziraphale shot Crowley a look, squashed in a, no long quite so surprisingly, strong, but lean arm.   
"Peas?"  
"Yeah." Crowley straightened and nodded at the cumbersome wooden construction that Shadwell and his young friend were currently struggling to turn the other way around. "That self-service place. That's exactly what I need for busy days. A lil' box outside where I can dump a few bestsellers to satisfy the desperate souls who have almost forgotten an anniversary or need a last-minute housewarming present. And then I can just leave a tin for the dosh and lock the front door so I can work in bloody _peace._ "  
Sergeant Shadwell and the young chap managed to right the construction so it was top up and bottom down and it all suddenly became much more recognisable.   
"Oh! Oh, that's not a bad idea at all!" Aziraphale said excitedly.   
"Aye, I was just saying that to young Pulsifer here," the sergeant butted in. "Very clever indeed, yer honour."  
Crowley looked like he had been kissed-up to far too many times to be at all impressed. His face went from pleased with himself to a cooly indifferent look in a way that made Aziraphale feel very lucky to be the one standing beside him rather than in front of him.  
"Are you going to be done today?" Crowley asked icily.   
Aziraphale winced. Sure, Shadwell was a tad bit sleazy but he had at least provided manual labour for Crowley.   
Shadwell's eyes shifted.  
"Well, yer honour, it's getting late and we were considering... reconvening tomorrow morning to paint it -"  
"Then the paint will be wet when I open," Crowley said coldly. "For the price we've agreed for this job, I expect it done tonight."  
Shadwell was clearly feeling out of his depth.   
"We cannae both paint it and move it, yer honour... The paint... And speaking of the payment - "  
"Move it 'round front, then paint it," Crowley cut him off. He threw his cigarette in the ashtray. "And don't you dare spill on the pavement. I'll get Hell with Arpee if you do." He turned to walk back into the shop, but looked over his shoulder. "I want that box out by my storefront when I clock in tomorrow morning, painted and _dry_. You'll get your money once you've managed that." His face softened to something more humane as he then addressed Aziraphale; "I'm gonna go for another round of that cream and then we can go, a'ight?"  
Aziraphale quickly nodded. He took a last few puffs off his cigarette, as Crowley vanished into the shop, and watched as the power drill started smoking in the young Pulsifer fellow's hand without even being turned on. Stubbing his cigarette into his pocket ashtray out of long-standing habit, and immediately wondering why on earth he did not simply use Crowley's flower pot full of sand, Aziraphale smiled at the two men in front of him as sergeant Shadwell bossed young Pulsifer around, as they struggled to get the self-service box onto a sack truck.  
"Well... Goodnight to you, gentlemen," he said. "I'm sure you'll do an absolutely cracking job."   
With a cheerful wave he scuttled inside. As the door had almost closed behind him he heard Shadwell's voice;  
"Great, big, southern pansy..."  
Aziraphale cringed slightly. He knew Shadwell would say that of anyone with proper manners but - urgh.   
To distract himself, Aziraphale had a good look around the backroom. The flower fridges were brimming with wreaths and matching decorations, the latter obviously for the wedding on Friday. The church was going to look jolly nice, Aziraphale reckoned, Crowley had done a lovely job.   
He let his gaze sweep across the room to the work table. There were a few scraps of silk band lying about as well as string and a couple of folders. Aziraphale frowned and sidled closer. The folders were plain beige ones, each with a number scribbled in absolutely appalling writing in the lined headers... and 'confidential' stamped across the fronts in bright red.   
Aziraphale blinked at the folders as they lay there, glaring up at him. Why in the World would a florist have 'confidential' folders? And if he did have information to warrant such a stamp, why would he leave it lying around like this??  
Aziraphale huffed and deliberately turned his back on the folders, instead listening to the sound of Shadwell's voice out in the yard as he and Pulsifer were clearly still struggling with the box.   
Why were those folder's just lying there, though?? Had Crowley accidentally forgotten about them? He was a bit forgetful today, wot with his feet plaguing him and all.   
Aziraphale peered over his shoulder and scoffed at the folders as they just continued to sit there. He resolutely swept them up, fully intending to put them on the shelf above the worktable were they would be less eye-catching, head still spinning with wonder as to what the Dickens Crowley could be involved in that required that sort of folders. And he had made it as far as to rest the folders against the shelf, but not actually let go of them, when a thought struck him; Was Crowley entangled in something... severe? He was quite the dark horse, exotic past in the big city and out-there mannerisms that clearly covered up... other things.   
Throwing caution to the wind and caving to his own morbid curiosity, Aziraphale cast a quick glance up the stairway. What if Crowley really was involved in something serious - and then something happened to him? No one would know why!   
Blood rushing in his ears, Aziraphale grabbed one folder and took a deep breath. He was about to open it with a trembling hand when -  
"What're you doing?"  
Aziraphale squawked and narrowly avoided flinging the folder straight into next week.   
"I, uh, I just -"  
Crowley slunk down the last few steps and sauntered very closely up to Aziraphale.   
"You have clearance for that?" Crowley asked, nodding at the folder, clutched in Aziraphale's hand.   
Aziraphale's heart felt like it was going go burst through his chest and his face was growing burning hot.   
"I, well... Goodness, you walk very quietly," he stuttered.   
Crowley's lips pursed in a terribly soft-looking pout as he quirked a brow.  
"Tut tut, naughty priest," he scolded with a quiet drawl, crowding Aziraphale against the worktable, both of them now holding onto the folder as Aziraphale's hand seemed locked in place.   
His brain was hardly shining at the moment either. It came up with fewer than zero good excuses, leaving Aziraphale to fend for himself as he stood there, not just his hand but his entire arm in the biscuit tin.   
"It - it was just lying there," he stammered.   
"And you thought you'd sneak a peek?" Crowley asked, cocking his head and leaning in a little, inspecting Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. "Riffle through my order papers and make a mess of them?"  
Aziraphale swallowed and took a step back. The step was roughly three inches as that was all the space left before his backside was pressing against the work table. His heart was going to burn out any minute now, he was sure of it, that was how fast it was pumping and his finger tips were growing cold.   
"O-orders?"   
"Yeah." Crowley looked at the folder. He pried it from Aziraphale's hand and opened it. "For the wedding on Friday, in this case."  
Aziraphale stared. As his heart rate slowed, a smirk bloomed in the corner of Crowley's mouth.  
"Your order p-papers for - the wedding?!" Aziraphale choked out. "But it's - why? _Why_ are the order papers for a wedding in a folder marked 'confidential'?!" he sputtered, his face growing even hotter than before.   
Crowley snickered.   
"Shits and giggles?" he said with a shrug. He raised a brow. "Why? What did you think it was?"  
"I - pfft! I thought absolutely nothing, I was simply puzzled!" Aziraphale protested.   
Crowley hummed.   
"A'ight..." he said skeptically.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Did you manage to put cream on your feet or have they fallen off completely?" he snipped. It was a hugely unfair, even mean, jab but Crowley was _once again_ doing that... standing-too-close thing and Aziraphale was terribly flustered and embarrassed and irked about this whole situation...  
"It's not leprosy," Crowley said, clearly too amused at his _completely fictional_ theory about what Aziraphale had made of a folder marked 'confidential', to be bothered. "It tries its level best to look like it, but it's not."  
Aziraphale was a little relieved that Crowley took it that way, even though it as at the expense of Aziraphale being smirked at.   
"Well. That's good. We can walk to the Tree then?" he asked.  
Crowley did not move an inch. He was still standing far too close, looking down at Aziraphale, smirk still going.   
"You read too many spy stories," he stated matter-of-factly. Before Aziraphale could protest, he chuckled darkly. "But misbehaving suits you."   
At this, Aziraphale did protest.  
"I was not - I did not -!"  
Crowley snorted softly.   
"Sure you weren't. Good as an angel, you are. Completely unable to do the wrong thing," he murmured. He slowly turned away and swaggered into the shop. "I'll just lock up and we can go."    
Aziraphale made a vague noise, discreetly leaning back against the work table, his heart hammering in a way very different way from before and his legs feeling like jelly. He was so caught up in his own thoughts he barely noticed Crowley return to the backroom.   
"Right. Are we going then, Angel?"   
Aziraphale snapped out of... whatever it was he had _most certainly not_ been feeling. He managed a half-decent scoff.  
"Don't call me that," he tutted.  
Crowley looked like wronged innocence incarnate.  
"Whyever not?"   
"Because my name's Aziraphale," Aziraphale said firmly.  
 _Because my knees go wobbly when you do and they're not meant to!  
_ "But it's such an apt description!" Crowley protested. "Of a well-behaved sort of fellow, who most definitely doesn't snoop in papers or forget his prayers or drink or smoke or swear -"  
"I don't swear!" Aziraphale bickered, finding his footing mentally and strutting past Crowley down the back steps.  
Crowley cackled loudly.   
"'Course not, no. Sorry. My mistake."


	13. Chapter 13

Crowley's numbed feet were singing Aziraphale's praise all the way through dinner, while at the other end of Crowley's body his head was in a haze of Big Queer Panic. That _name_ \- that _bloody name!_ \- that had never been meant to make it out of Crowley's bedroom had now in fact escaped and was running rampant, all because Crowley too much of a _damn idiot_ to keep himself in check-!  
 _God damn you, Crowley, you stupid horny bastard, why are you like this?!  
_ "Are you quite well?" Aziraphale asked as they were collecting themselves in preparation to tell the barman to stick their dinners - and a couple of drinks each - on their respective tabs and then scram. "Are your feet any better? Is that medication of yours starting to work?" he fussed.  
Crowley shushed him.  
"Keep it down," he hissed. "I'm fine, it's bearable right now. That cream of yours is a miracle."  
Aziraphale beamed.  
"I'm glad I could help," he said, possibly going a little pink in the cheeks. "Is it something you get often?" he asked as they strolled down the street, back towards the flower shop where Aziraphale was going to pick up his bike and Crowley his Bentley - which he had promised to be _very_ careful when driving home, as Aziraphale had fussed terribly over the potential risk of drunk driving.   
"I don't look like a half-decomp'ed body often, no," Crowley groused.  
Aziraphale tutted.  
"It's hardly that bad. It just looks terribly uncomfortable for you, is all."  
"It looks gross," Crowley said firmly. "But no. Not often. Only if I get too stressed out while the weather is getting warmer..."  
"At least that's a pretty specific set of circumstances," Aziraphale noted. "Had it long?"  
"Nm... Started at the home when I was around fourteen..." Crowley said, cutting himself off. 'Angel' was one thing. More than bad enough. No use going about blabbering about everything else too..!  
Luckily it seemed that Aziraphale was more interested in prying at other sore spots.  
"So that's... how long now?" he asked smoothly, with a deliberately neutral face that did nothing good for Crowley's blood pressure.   
"Oh hohoh, clever, are we now?" he sneered as they reached the flower shop.   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Does you age live in a manila folder stamped 'classified' too?" he asked tersely.  
Crowley nodded sincerely.  
"Yes."   
"So if I keep asking, I will, presumably, be manhandled and have my jacket all creased again?" Aziraphale asked snippily.   
Oh. So they were discussing that _now._ Actually _discussing it_ , not just that sort of... _not_ discussing it that they had been doing earlier. Alright. Okay. Cool.   
"Terribly sorry about your clothes," Crowley purred, deciding he had been faking his way through life for so many years, why stop now?   
Aziraphale hummed, and half-shrugged, snippy look melting away.  
"It's alright," he said sheepishly, absentmindedly fingering the bell on his bike. "I didn't mind, no worries."  
 _No. You didn't, did you..?  
_ "Didn't you now?" Crowley cooed with his best smirk. He leaned forward, one hand in his jean pocket and the other on the window of the shop, leaving a handprint he would have to wipe off tomorrow morning, cornering Aziraphale between the wall, his bike and Crowley's arm. "How so?"  
Aziraphale's eyes went saucer-round, same as earlier in the backroom.   
"We all... forget ourselves sometimes," he said gracefully.  
"Mm... Still," Crowley muttered. "Wouldn't want to... upset my new neighbours. Bad for business," he added quickly.  
Aziraphale did not exactly look upset but he certainly... looked some sort of way.  
"Fair point, I suppose," the blond chuckled weakly. He bit his lip in a maddeningly cute way. "I, uh... I really..."   
Crowley watched Aziraphale's eyes as they seemed to glue themselves to his smirk.   
"Yeah. You should get going home..." he said vaguely, still leaning against the window. Aziraphale just stared up at him, wide-eyed and adorable and so damn close... It would be so easy to lean in a little further... see if the pretty Angel would ask him to stop...  
"Did they finish painting your little stall?" Aziraphale suddenly asked in a hurried voice.   
Crowley blinked. Had he actually been leaning in? Whoops... He pushed away from a flustered-looking Aziraphale and instead focused on the wooden construction further down the pavement.  
"Ah. Hng." He sauntered over to peer at the self-serve box. It had been painted with black wood stain, still glistening slightly. "Yup. Looks done." He surveyed the pavement beneath. "And it even looks like they've managed to not spill. I'm astonished. The lad looks like he couldn't work a door handle and the sergeant is two tomatoes short of a salad, if you ask me," he groused.   
"Seems like they've done a good job on that," Aziraphale said, still standing by his bike, eyes trained on Crowley. He quickly looked away as Crowley turned towards him and kicked the stand up, clearing his throat. "I really should be going..."  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Yeah. Gotta be ready for the funeral tomorrow."  
"And the potential phone calls from Friday's bride..." Aziraphale groaned, rolling his eyes. "I must say," he continued. "that I'm glad I'm not alone in dealing with her."  
Crowley smirked and swaggered back to rest a hand on the handlebars of Aziraphale's bike.  
"That's what friends are for..." he crowed. "Helping you... _deal_ with things you need a... _hand_ with."   
_That was_ spectacularly _bad Crowley, wow, what the fuck, why, WHY -  
_ "I really should go," Aziraphale said breathlessly. He practically pushed Crowley out of the way as he turned his bike around. Before pushing off he quickly looked over his shoulder, that _look_ still on his face, only ten times stronger now. "Goodnight..." Then he was off, leaving a stunned Crowley staring down the street after him as pedaled off.  
Crowley blew out a gush of air and ran his fingers through his hair, getting a ring tangled in a braid he must have put there without noticing while listening to Aziraphale rant about rude brides he had had to deal with over the years, completely lost in apt fascination as the blond had huffed and scoffed and pouted. He freed his hand with an annoyed hiss, eyes still locked on the bend in the road around which Aziraphale had disappeared.   
That last look...  
Crowley forgot all about his promise and drove like the devil was on his heels on the way home, while the weight of Aziraphale's gaze, wide-eyed and heated, stuck to his skin, thick as syrup. He barely made it to his bedroom, having ditched his clothes at random on the way from the front door, before he was desperately stroking himself.  
That look. There was no two ways about it. He had been unsure about what he had seen in those blue eyes at the rectory earlier that day, recognising the look from the little incident at the shop, and had figured that maybe that was simply what Aziraphale looked like when startled and intimidated - although it had all had looked vaguely pornographic, but Crowley had put that down to his own sorry obsession with the blond. He had kept wondering about it, vacillating back and forth between what he reckoned it had looked like and what it was more _likely_ to have looked like, grumbling to himself as he slaved away on the funeral orders.   
In the end, he had decided that he should perhaps give Aziraphale a bit of space, remembering that he had invited himself into Aziraphale's house, but then the blond had, of his own volition, inserted himself back into Crowley's space when he brought the crates around. And then he had invited Crowley to join him for dinner. And then snooped through Crowley's things.   
Despite being mid-wank and panting like he had run all the way home rather than driven, Crowley chuckled. He had found the 'confidential' folders online and had been wholly unable to resist buying a box of 500, figuring that a grown person who ran an independent business would need folders. They had been dirt cheap but could honestly have cost him a million and they would still have been worth every penny, just to see Aziraphale's over-active imagination run wild upon finding them. But clearly, Crowley was not so scary that Aziraphale was too intimidated to riffle through his papers, he had realised, as he had spied on a practically vibrating Aziraphale, so he had decided he might as well test things a little, since he now had an excellent opportunity. Aziraphale had, sure enough, started out with the guilty, startled look of someone who had been caught red-handed, but then, as Crowley had let him off the hook, the look had... morphed minutely. Going from frozen to something a little more breathless, a little more... pearl-clutchingly horny, bluntly put, which had lured that damn pet name out of hiding.   
Crowley mewled and slipped his free hand down to give his balls a firm squeeze, his breath hitching in his throat. He had decided that no result was valid unless it could be intentionally replicated, so he had pushed his luck a little, just now, outside the shop and the pay-off had been spectacular. That one last, long look...  
With a deep groan, Crowley suddenly came, catching himself by surprise, really, white drops spilling over his hand while his back arched off the mattress and Aziraphale's blue eyes bore into the inside of his skull.  
Fuck... Crowley stared up at the ceiling, catching his breath. This was bad. Wanking himself raw, thinking about Aziraphale had been bad enough when he had figured there was no chance of anything happening ever. Now, with that _damn look_ between them, all those filthy ideas of blue eyes and ruffled blond curls just seemed that inch closer to something resembling realism. The cursed knowledge that his lusting was not entirely one-sided was going to dangle in front of him like a bloody carrot on a stick forever!   
"Fuck..!"  
With a grumble, Crowley got up from the bed and shuffled off to take an unusually cold shower. He needed to _think_.   
Alright, so Aziraphale was clearly feeling... something or other. In spite of Crowley's eczema, even, so there was that. What good was that though? Sure, loads of priests were a bunch of bloody hypocrites who slept around like God was not real and meant nothing anyway, but... honestly, Crowley thought more highly of Aziraphale than that. There was of course also the fact to content with that Aziraphale himself had not actually done anything. He had merely been a little worked up because Crowley had been flirting - badly - with him. He was only human, and despite all the cracks in lacquer, expecting him to crumble entirely like that was perhaps a bit much... Especially if Crowley's theory, that he had taken up priesthood as a way of coping with his sexuality, was correct. A little attraction was only natural - especially, psh, to a guy like Crowley, in all modesty, of course - but acting on it... In his job situation and all.   
Crowley let his head loll back and whined into the spray of water. What the Hell was this bullshit now? First he got the hots for the guy, then he hated him for being a priest, then he flirted with him despite him being a priest and now... he was hoping nothing would come of it because he had _expectations_ of how a priest should behave?!   
Crowley had never been a shower-thinker, instead having most of his best ideas in bed while waiting to fall asleep, so he turned off the water and dried himself off. His hair was going to be a nightmare tomorrow morning if he slept on it damp, but that was what hair ties were for, he figured. He climbed into bed, curled up on his side and pulled the duvet all the way up to his nose, a good old sulk slowly coming along.  
This was ridiculous! Who the fuck was he even anymore? Urgh, this was what he got for befriending a priest! Nothing but trouble...   
And a nice new friend whose company he enjoyed immensely, even if you stripped away the layer of teenage-horny pining.   
God damn it...   
Just before nodding off, he decided that this would simply have to run its course. There was clearly some sort of spark there. All he could do now was wait and see what Aziraphale decided to do with it...  
  


**1 hour earlier**

Aziraphale was panicking the entire ride back to the rectory. Once home he desperately tried to pray his rosaries, making it about half way before giving up with a groan and slumping into the cushions of his old sofa as his brain simply refused to focus on the test and he could feel his mouth just running along on muscle memory alone with no meaning behind it.   
There had always been an edge of flirtation to Crowley, that had just seemed to be his way, but this just now had gotten awfully obvious. Forget the bloody wink. Crowley had been _leaning in_ , for crying out loud!   
_He would've kissed you. Cornered you and kissed you and what could you have done then, really..?  
_ Aziraphale abruptly got up from the sofa, breathing heavily. This was exactly why he had refused to think too much about the grabbing incident! It had been all too clear that too much over-thinking would lead to nothing good, but this day had seemed to consist of at least 50 percent reminders of the damn thing! He could have sworn Crowley had been doing it on purpose by the shop just now! He had had Aziraphale up against the window, smirking at him, all tall and dark and dangerous and -  
 _So bloody handsome, it's not even fair...  
_ Aziraphale stomped upstairs. He needed a shower. A long, cold one. He got under the spray with a disgruntled noise and just stood there, eyes squeezed shut, trying to think of anything but Crowley. He mentally went over everything for the funeral and then for the wedding and by the time his teeth were chattering, he felt somewhat certain that he had managed to purge Crowley from his mind. With relief he slipped out of the shower and decided that he might as well just put on pajamas right away. Maybe make himself a cup of cocoa and go over his homily for Ron Ormerod.  
But as he stood there, freezing, his thoughts ended up wandering back to that other day at the shop... How warm Crowley had felt, how close they stood... even closer than tonight at the shop...  
Aziraphale swallowed hard, uselessly clutching his towel to his chest, staring off into mid-space. The old building suddenly creaked, as it often did, producing a sound almost like someone stepping onto the lowest step of the stairs. For a split second Aziraphale's mind ran rampant, imagining Crowley slinking through the dark, and he half-expected the handle of the bathroom door to turn and a slender form to seep in, stalking towards him, backing him into the shower, yellow eyes glowing and a wicked smirk spreading beneath.   
Aziraphale whined, almost hysterically, wringing his towel in his hands while his body rendered the discomfort of taking a cold shower entirely moot. He had been struggling with Crowley's impishly menacing presence, pretty much since he met the man, but right now 'struggling' was no longer really covering it. 'Struggling' implied that Aziraphale was putting up some sort of fight... And he was, in a sense... in the scenario that was currently playing itself out in his head, that was, of him being pushed up against the wall while a set of pink lips mouthed along his throat and Crowley's voice whispered in his ear;  
'You want nice, Angel? I'll show you nice...'  
Aziraphale's right hand freed itself from the towel entirely of its own accord and instead grabbed his growing erection. There was no fighting it this time, he would go insane if he let it be now. Perhaps it was what he needed? Just... getting it over with. Dealing with it now, rather than letting it mount until he drowned completely in it.   
And so Aziraphale let his eyes flutter shut and imagined that it was Crowley's hand quickly stroking him towards completion. He imagined Crowley's cologne filling his nostrils and the warmth of the redheads bony front pressed against his side. He made a strangled noise as he spilled onto the floor of the shower, his free hand clawing at the wall to steady him, dropping the towel. He took a moment to catch his breath, then kicked the wet towel out of the way and turned the water on again, at a more tolerable temperature this time, quickly washing himself. Then he dried his feet nominally on the discarded towel and tottered across the small landing to his bedroom to fetch a dry towel. As he was looking down, rummaging through the linden drawer, he caught a glimpse of himself, chubby and pink from the warm water and... unfashionably fuzzy - or rather, he would have been fuzzy, had he not been wet. As it was all the hair on his body was just sticking to his skin, which was hardly a too charming look either. Not on him... Then again, his body had never really been all that charming so...   
With a sigh Aziraphale pulled out a towel and miserably dried himself off. That old and inconveniently disappointing thought crept back in;  
That was just it, was it not? Sure, Crowley might nearly have kissed him... But it was not about _him_ was it? It was the clerical collar, whether he was wearing it or not. If Crowley wanted anything beyond friendship - and Aziraphale was enjoying his company too much to be willing to entirely discard that idea. The redhead had been marvellous earlier when they had been whining to one another about the hysterical bride - it was bound to be because Aziraphale was a priest. Not because of... Aziraphale as such. There was no way it would be...  
Once again he gritted his teeth against the certainty that Crowley was not worth getting worked up over, only this time... he had. He had allowed himself to be lured in, had actually... failed to resist and had forgotten himself. He felt utterly pathetic as he pulled on his pajamas and camel wool slippers.  
With a sigh he dropped backwards, seating himself on his bed and folding his hands tightly. The homily would just have to wait until tomorrow. He did not feel right doing work right now, as he was...  
"Confiteor Deo, omnipotenti. Beata Maria, Semper Virgini..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best work ever, but you guys got another morsel of smut and the plot moved incrementally so... lol  
> I was away from Wednesday last week and came home Sunday so I didnt have much time to write this past week.  
> Hope you can at least somewhat enjoy this one and as always forgive any typos and other bloopers


	14. Chapter 14

**Thursday 9th June**

Crowley was cramming white lilies into soaked oasis in the backroom, one of three new orders for the funeral which had clocked in overnight, when there was a knock on the shop door. With just about one hour to go before he would have to load up the van and take everything to the church and the weird fucking wank the previous night still fresh in his mind, he was in no damn mood to deal with anyone. He tried to ignore the knocking, but then a voice called;  
"Crowley?"  
Aziraphale. What could he want now? Was there a cock-up at the church or something? Had the roof shuffled off its mortal coil along with the plumber? When Crowley had woken up that morning the whole World had been dripping wet, having clearly taking a hefty drenching during the night, so there was a certain risk, he supposed...   
_Or could it be about... last night?  
_ Crowley dried off his hands and hurried out to unlock the front door.  
"Something wrong?" he asked.   
Aziraphale looked a bit hectic as he slipped in.  
"I, uh... No. Not at all. I just wanted..." He swallowed hard and looked around, refusing to meet Crowley's gaze. "To see your... new stall in action." He nodded to himself, as if mentally ticking off box. "And ask about you feet! Yes. How are they?" he quickly added, cheeks flushing.   
Crowley stared. Then he blinked. And then stared some more, his having seemingly forgotten how to... eye. He had said he would wait and see what Aziraphale did next, but showing up the very next, blushing and full of silly excuses - that was unexpected.   
"I, uh. Buh. Yeah. Okay. Erh, I mean, my feet are good," he managed, "Or, well, they're, y'know... but they're actually on the mend, a bit. My own meds are starting to kick in. Did an epson soak this morning before I came here."  
Aziraphale nodded and wrung his hands.  
"Good. Excellent. Marvellous. Great. Uhm... Your stall..."  
Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets, shuffled his feet a little, in a cool way, obviously. Not a nervous one. Not the sort of way you shuffle your feet when you are chatting to a hot guy you nearly snogged last night.   
"Yeah? I haven't looked at it since I stocked it, to be honest. Anything sold yet?"  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"I didn't quite look..." he said. "But uh... It seems that the pavement may have made it out alive, but your... your wall hasn't."  
Crowley lost any resemblance of posture left in him.   
"My wall? They got - they got fucking _paint_ on the -! Gahhh!!" He flung himself outside and glared at the stall. Sure enough - behind the box, where it would have been completely engulfed by shadows last night, a long stripe had black had been smeared along the brown bricks. " _You've gotta be taking the fucking piss!!"  
_ Aziraphale shushed Crowley, looking around a bit awkwardly. The baker and the postman had been chatting outside the bakery across the street, but were now looking on in silence.   
"He got paint on the brick work..!" Aziraphale explained, sheepishly, while Crowley felt like his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets from his blood pressure alone.   
"You'll want that cleaned up," the postman supplied. "or Arpee will be on your case..."  
"He's not exactly taken a shine to you as it is," the baker agreed.  
"Yes, thank you, Bert," Aziraphale said, with a bit of a sharp twang to his voice, which pulled Crowley incrementally out of his fury. "Come along now, dear boy, let's go back inside before one of the neighbours think you have rabies."  
"Hi there, Father A. What's going on?"   
Anathema had poked her head out of her shop.   
"He got paint on the brick work!" the postman explained from across the street.   
"How did you get paint on the bricks?" Anathema asked as Crowley let Aziraphale drag him back inside the shop, fuming.   
" _Sssergeant..!_ " Crowley hissed.  
Anathema scoffed.  
"That's what you get!" she said pointedly before vanishing back into the dimness of her shop and slamming the door.   
"The fuck's her problem?!" Crowley howled as Aziraphale shut the door behind them. "She was like this yesterday too!"  
"What do you expect, dragging sergeant Shadwell into her backyard?" Aziraphale asked exasperatedly. "Bit of a faux pas there, old dear."   
"Why?!" Crowley moaned, honestly just pissed off with the World at large at the moment.   
"Did the sergeant not mention?" Aziraphale asked. "I'm surprised you've been around him more than five minutes without hearing about it, and so close to Anathema too. But the sergeant, he uh... fancies himself a bit of a witch hunter," he finished with an hopeless frown.   
"I don't listen when he talks, do I?" Crowley groused. "And you've gotta be kidding me, right?"  
Aziraphale pressed his lips together and shook his head.  
"I'm afraid not... And he's not exactly subtle about his opinions, is he now? So this has naturally let to a certain... animousity between the two of them. It only really helped people take to Anathema faster I think, but still..."  
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"He fancies himself a _what_ _now?_ And she hasn't sued him, like a proper yankee yet?"  
"Marjorie managed to convince her that it was good publicity. Worked wonders for Marjie's business when she first started doing seances." Aziraphale said with a doubtful curl of his lip.  
Crowley rested an elbow on a small floating shelf by the door, which housed a very nice pot of cyclamens and cocked his hip.   
"Wait, wait, woah. He sprinkled her door with _what_? And Marjie does _what now_? Is everyone in this damn village insa -"  
Aziraphale yelped and jumped back and Crowley gave the least cool squawk in the World as the shelf was yanked clean out of the wall under his weight, sending the cyclamen flying onto the floor where the pot smashed and sent pottery shards and mulch flying in every directed.   
Crowley had no words as he stood there, staring at the mess. He slowly turned his head to look at the wall, where two large chunks of deliberately half-done plaster had been ripped off the bricks and one blue and one red raw plug peeked out.   
"WHAT IN THE FRESH HELL?!" he screamed.   
Anathema barged into the shop, bell jangling furiously and the door dragging through the mulch on the floor.   
"What're you doing?" she asked exasperatedly. "Sounded like you were getting yourself killed."  
"Someone's about to die that's for sure!" Crowley seethed. He whipped out his phone and started dialing.   
Aziraphale had backed himself into a vase of some sort of fancy-looking dry straw with long fuzzy tails that was sitting on the floor and had only narrowly avoided knocking it over - which might have warranted less of a grab-and-slam in this moment and more of a frenzied slaughter.   
"Who are you phoning?" he asked carefully as Crowley raised the phone to his ear, gripping the thing so hard it was surely about to crack, and Anathema muttered something about fetching a broom and vanished back into her own shop.   
"My fucking interior desi -" Crowley started then cutting himself off and wafting Aziraphale away with a hand. "Yeah, hi. It's me. I need the number for whichever _moron_ hung my shelves at the shop. One of them just fell off the wall," he said in a saccharine voice that lead Aziraphale to the decision that pointing out that the shelf had not exactly 'fallen off the wall' at random, might be a bad idea. " _Now,_ " he finished icily. As he furiously jutted down what Aziraphale presumed to be the requested number, Anathema returned with a broom and dustpan.   
"Did you call someone yet?" Anathema asked as she started sweeping up mulch and Crowley hung up without saying goodbye.   
"'Bout to," Crowley said ominously, dialing the new number hard enough that Aziraphale was surprised to not see his thumbs poking straight through the phone. Aziraphale quirked a brow as Crowley lifted the phone to his ear and drummed his fingers on the counter.   
"Could you maybe get a pot for that?" Anathema asked, nodding at the capsised plant.   
Aziraphale grabbed the plant, just as Crowley growled, briefly prodding at the screen and raising the phone to his ear again, having clearly drawn a blank but unwilling to yield. Aziraphale quickly shuffled off to the backroom where he recalled seeing a stack of plastic pots the night before. Thoroughly pushing away that particular thought, he put the rumbled cyclamen down on the work table and began rummaging around the room. The stack of pots had unfortunately vanished, presumably ferried off to the bin outside in the yard, so Aziraphale slipped outside to the green recycling bin and opened the lid and peered in, finding packaging wrapping, bubble wrap, an alarming number of empty energy drink cans, the contents of which had presumably gone into Crowley's system, but no plant pots. With a sigh Aziraphale closed the lid and cast a glance towards the grey waste bin. With a groan, he opened the lid - and of course found it mostly empty, because it had been the collection day for the grey bin just two days prior, leaving the stack of pots nearly on the bottom of the dirty bin. Aziraphale was about to say 'sod it' and back out, but then an absolute banshee howl could be heard from inside the shop.  
"FULLY BOOKED FOR THREE MONTHS, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU, THE BLOODY QUEEN?!"  
Wincing, Aziraphale quickly stood on his tip-toes and reached down, trying his darnedest to not touch the inside of the bin. He had to reach quite a bit, but managed to snatch up a pot - and scrape his elbow against in the process as he momentarily lost his balance. Hurrying inside, he twisted his arm and neck to surgery the damage - a big ugly smudge on his best everyday blazer! His only everyday blazer, truth be told, but that hardly mitigated its quality! He had had it for fifteen years and was thankful that the cuts in men's fashion did not change overly much. He usually took jolly good care of it and now he would have to have it dry-cleaned, leaving him jacket-less for days!Annoyedly, he grabbed the cyclamen from the work table - crumbling mulch all over one of Crowley's silly folders - and stuck it in the pot while listening to Crowley losing his mind and Anathema, unimpressedly tried to get him to pull himself together.   
"Just call someone else -" Anathema groaned, gathering up ceramic shards from the floor.   
"Those twats oughta fix their bloody crap job -!" Crowley snarled, rounding on Aziraphale as he entered the room, on the verge of fussing and frankly completely uninterested in Crowley's stupid shelf. "Fuck's happened to you?" Crowley asked, anger evaporating like fog under the sun.   
"My jacket -" Aziraphale whined, showing his elbow. "Got it all dirty while I was fishing out a pot for the flower _you_ took off the wall -!"  
" _He_ took it off the wall?" Anathema butted in.  
Crowley waved her off.   
"Aw, bugger," he tutted, plucking at Aziraphale sleeve to look at the stain.   
"Bugger indeed!" Aziraphale agreed, fussing in earnest now. "Look at the state of this! I'll have to take it to the dry cleaners now and it'll take days!"  
"I'll fix it," Crowley said hurriedly. "I promise, I'll fix it tonight, no worries!"  
Aziraphale was cautiously mellowed by this.  
"You can..?"  
Crowley snorted.  
"Former rentboy, yeah? I can get any stain off any clothing, I promise!" He held out a hand towards Aziraphale, clearly pulling his best convincing face. "C'mon, I'll fix it for you! My bin, by problem."  
Aziraphale considered the offer for a moment. He was loathe to leave his blazer to anyone but his usual, trusted dry-cleaners, but the promise of getting it back sooner...   
"Alright," he pouted, setting the potted flower down on the counter, throughly brushing off his hands and slipping off his blazer.   
"Just hang it by the back door," Crowley said, picking up his phone, which was lying face-down on the counter, his voice picking up some agitation. "while I call sergeant Moron, since the nitwits who put up the shelf don't have time to come around and I need to get cracking -"  
"Right. Screw this."  
Anathema rudely dropped the handful of pottery she had been gathering, picked up her broom and dustpan and left. Out on the street she briefly glanced into the shop, throwing Crowley an honest-to-God malocchio before vanishing into her own store.  
Crowley gaped.  
"'Hell's her problem?" he asked exasperatedly. "I hate to be _that guy,_ but is it that time of the month or something??"  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"I told you, it's because of the sergeant," he said. He strolled out to the backroom to hang his blazer on top of Crowley's - and shooting his folder another dirty look. It knew what it had done. "Wouldn't you be a bit miffed if someone who had tried to drive you out of the village was working right next door to you?"  
Crowley groaned.   
"Look, _no one_ , except Marjie, actually _likes_ him, but _c'mon,_ the Hell am I supposed to do?" he hissed, throwing up his hands.   
"Anathema likes him even less than most," Aziraphale explained apologetically. "Like I said, they got off to... a bit of a rough start. When she first came here, he uh... may have written a piece for the Advertiser that, erh, 'wickedness and sorcery' had once again descended upon the village - Marjorie being round one, mind. And then he, uh... sprinkled the front of her shop with holy water..." he finished awkwardly, watching Crowley's face slowly drop.  
The redhead buried his face in his hands.  
"Guhhh. Okay. Okay, okay, so what's happening right now is that I'm still not quite ready for today's funeral because people _keep_ ordering stuff for it, I also have yet to finish the wedding order for that overbearing, bottle-blonde trollop, my feet are killing me, the neighbourhood stalker maniac could well be about to come bearing down on my arse any minute now because a couple of morons got paint on my fucking store front, those same idiots are my best shot at getting my shelf fixed soon and now the crazy lady next door is probably trying to curse me for hiring them and my shop is a mess!!" Crowley rambled, voice rising to a scream, before collapsing face-first onto the counter.  
Aziraphale shuffled his feet.  
"Perhaps, ehm... You don't have to fix my blazer tonight," he offered. "It can wait. It's getting nice and warm out, I'll just send it off to dry-cleaning -"  
"Don't take away the one thing I had to look forward to," Crowley muttered against the counter. He straightened his back and pulled the hair tie out of his hair to redo his messy bun. Red curls came tumbling down all around his face, long and gorgeous and even curlier than usual. Aziraphale stared as spindly fingers quickly gathered everything back up and tied it away.   
"But really, you have so much going on..." he argued automatically. He blinked out of his stupor. "And I thought you said your feet were better?"  
"I said they were 'on the mend'," Crowley said dismissively, rising his phone. "Not that they were any _good_. Now shush, will ya, while I make another call..."  
Aziraphale had a few things to say to that, including the fact that Crowley's nails were completely bitten down to stubs, but as Crowley raised his phone to his ear, Aziraphale just shook his head and tottered off to the bakery across the street, deciding that he might as well make himself a little useful.   
Awfully sweet of Crowley to offer to fix his blazer, he thought as he carefully looked both ways before crossing. Especially with everything that he had going on just then. Aziraphale once again felt strengthened in his belief that they really were becoming properly and genuinely friendly with one another. This morning had been completely flirt-free so far! Perhaps Crowley had reflected on things just as Aziraphale had had and decided to keep things platonic.  
If there was a hint of disappointment to be found somewhere in a dark corner of his mind, that that was how it had to be, then that was not something he found worth dwelling on as he entered the bakery. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short and shamefully plot stall-y and just overall... a bit lame, frankly, but I felt like I needed to flesh out Anathema's relationship with the sergeant a little


	15. Chapter 15

Half an hour later Aziraphale had managed to free himself from Bert who had been feeling mighty chatty about the weather, Ron Ormerod's funeral and Crowley's new stall - and what Arpee was going to make of everything about it - with a very nice BLT sandwich in hand and left the bakery. Across the street sergeant Shadwell's rusty Renault, that Aziraphale was quite surprised to learn could even still start, let along go forward, was now parked by the curb and inside the shop the man himself and his new young helper could be seen.  
"Good morning, Father!" Shadwell simpered as Aziraphale walked in.  
Aziraphale nodded his head.  
"Good morning, sergeant. I was just popping through to see Crowley..." He quickly tip-toed around the mound of dirt on the floor that Pulsifer had swept up and scurried off towards the backroom.   
"Ah, Father, if I may have a word?" Shadwell asked.   
Aziraphale had been reaching for the handle, but he stopped and looked back at the old odd-jobs man.   
"Yes?"  
"Strikes me that Mr Crowley has had an awful lot of bad luck as of late," Shadwell said conspiratorially.   
Aziraphale raised a brow. Crowley had been having bad luck for the past five days or so. That hardly constituted 'lately'.  
"Yes..?"  
"And I thought, based on years of experience," Shadwell continued, puffing out his chest. "that it may be the witch next door who's causing it."  
Aziraphale thought to himself that Shadwell had more part in the ever-growing series of unfortunate events that poor Crowley had to endure than Anathema, but said nothing.   
"I've offered to set up a few extra wards against her wiles," Shadwell explained. "but Mr Crowley doesn't seem very interested. And for the sake of his safety, I really think he oughta consider -"  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"I'm terribly flattered that you reckon I have any sort of control over the old menace, but the sad truth is that I don't," he said, slowly shuffling backwards. "And now I really do need to get on with it rather than take up your time when you're busy..."  
Crowley looked ready to flay him when he opened the door, but his expression immediately cleared up.   
"I thought you'd bugged off again. Don't you have work to do?" he asked with a smirk hiding in one corner of his mouth.   
Aziraphale held up the sandwich.  
"I brought you something to nibble, since I strongly suspect that you're going to be very naughty and not take time off to look after yourself today," he said.  
Crowley accepted the wrapped-up sandwich and sniffed it suspiciously.   
"Thanks," he said slowly, quirking a brow. "Now answer my question; shouldn't you be at work?"   
Aziraphale pursed his lips and shuffled his feet.  
"I, uh, well..." He groaned. "Truth be told, I'm expecting a call from the bishop, so, uhm..."  
"So you're making sure to be out?" Crowley finished, smile growing, as he stuck his sandwich on a shelf in the nearest flower fridge, leaning it against a finished funeral wreath.  
Aziraphale tutted.  
"It's a completely pointless call!" he argued snippily. "He's calling to ask about the local schools and their continued stance on information on the killing of unborn children and premarital... involvements."  
Crowley's left brow nearly climbed off his forehead.  
"Is he... trying to say 'Sex-Ed'..?"  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"I'm sure you can imagine where's he's going with it," he sighed. "And I really cannot for the life of me fathom what he expects me to do about it! The local schools are completely secular! I cannot simply turn up at the principals office and demand that they take it off the timetable..."  
Crowley snickered.   
"He probably wants you to stand outside the classroom and hand out flyers, telling the kids that their willies will fall off if they touch themselves," he said dryly.  
Aziraphale cringed.  
"I will do no such thing! I have already been on the phone and explained my situation to the school office and as sympathetic as they were that I was only doing what I had been told, it was nonetheless absolutely horrendous."  
"Mind you," Crowley noted, while stabbing ranunculi into the wet oasis on his work table like it had offended him personally. "their willies would be falling off if he had his way and got rid of Sex-Ed..."  
Aziraphale groaned.  
"I have tried to raise that point! But he just accused me of not supporting the Church in its views and said that STI's were the Lord's punishment for sinning... Which is not at all true! The, uh... the part about me not being supportive, I mean... I fully back the Church, I just don't have the power to actually _do_ what he wants of me..." he trailed off, awkwardly clearing his throat and folding his hands behinds his back.  
Crowley blew a wet raspberry.   
"So you're now hiding here. Pretending to be doing the Lord's work, ferrying me lunch from across the street."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Quite. Fancy coming to Mass one of these days?" he asked brightly.  
Crowley glared.  
"I'm going to graciously assume that you're only asking for the sake of looking busy," he said pointedly, sticking a few green leaves into the decoration on his table.  
Aziraphale shrugged apologetically.  
"Can't leave poor Deidre to outright _lie_ to the bishop for me, once he calls," he said sincerely.  
"In that case... Better give you a bit of a challenge then," Crowley conceded, sticking up two fingers in a rude gesture. "Anything for Moneypenny."  
Aziraphale snickered.  
"And speaking of things that aren't happening..." Crowley pondered, turning the flower arrangement over to see if the sides were equally plump. "What will you do if you suddenly get actual customers?"  
"Oh, Deidre will be calling you if that happens," Aziraphale explained, feeling his cheeks grow a little warm. "That's why I'm hiding here."  
Crowley hummed and nodded, smirk growing once more.   
The backroom door opened and Shadwell poked his head in.  
"That's the job done, yer honour!" he announced. "So, ah... if we could sort out the payment..?"  
"And the smear on the wall?" Crowley asked, smirk gone.  
Shadwell cleared his throat.  
"I'll be needing solvent for that, I fear, yer honour," he said haltingly. "But I shall be sending out young Pulsifer on the morrow to take care of it, rest assured!"  
Crowley groaned.  
"Get us m'wallet from my jacket and pay the man, would you?" he said to Aziraphale, setting aside the flower arrangement and grabbing an empty wreath of oasis and wire.  
Aziraphale patted down the pockets of the garment and fished out a sleek black leather thing.  
"How much?"  
"Ah, just 35 pound," Shadwell shrugged humbly.   
Aziraphale wondered to himself, as he dug out the bank notes and handed them over, how much of that money would be going to young Pulsifer, who was now scooping mulch into a bin bag.   
"Yeah, a'ight, brilliant, now push off, I need to finish this last decoration in half an hour _and_ load up the van _and_ make it to the church in decent time," Crowley snapped.  
"Do, uh... do you want a hand?" Aziraphale offered lamely.  
Crowley wrinkled his nose.  
"You'll just get stains on more of your clothes, wouldn't want that," he said, not at all as unkindly as he could have.  
"Ahh... Forgive me, yer honour," Shadwell started, turning back round, having nearly left the backroom, counting the notes as if Aziraphale might have miscounted. "If I may..."  
"If it's the bloody wards against the crazy lady next door -" Crowley said impatiently.  
"Nay nay, ye misunderstand, yer honour," Shadwell quickly groveled. "But I was thinkin'... Since yer so busy... Perhaps young Pulsifer could be of assistance?"  
Behind him, Pulsifer looked up from trying to tie the bin bag closed, like a hare in the headlights.   
"In what way?" Crowley asked skeptically.   
Pulsifer looked like he found that to be a very reasonable question indeed.  
"The lad has a driver's license," Shadwell said, with the mannerisms of a salesman. "For a fee he could do yer deliveries..?"  
Aziraphale watched the cogs turn under Crowley's mane of red hair.   
"Paddington!"  
The young man startled, dropping the bin bag with a ceramic rattle, the knot coming undone and the contents spilling back onto the floor.  
"It's, uh, it's P-Pulsif-" he started, warily creeping up to the doorway while shaking dirt off his shoes.  
Crowley grabbed a clip board from the shelf above the worktable and showed it at the younger man.  
"This is a delivery note," he said, turning his attention back to the naked ring of oasis on the table. "It has an address and a dotted line. You load up the van, without fucking up the flowers, go to the address without fucking up the flowers and get someone relevant to sign on the dotted once you've hauled the flowers inside, once again without fucking them up. Alright?"   
Pulsifer stared at the delivery note, frowning. Then he nodded quickly.  
"Y-yeah. Yeah, alright..."   
Crowley hummed.  
"This one's for the church just down the street. If you can manage that without any disasters, there'll be another job for you tomorrow," he sniffed, trimming down flower stems.   
"Excellent!" Shadwell said merrily, pocketing the money still in his hand. "Run along now, private ye've got a job t'do! Ye get stuck into things here, now, and I'll be at the pub!"  
Crowley, Aziraphale and young Pulsifer looked after him as he packed up his toolbox and left with a military salute.   
Aziraphale frowned as the old Renault out front started up and took off.  
"Does he... have a license?" he asked slowly.   
Pulsifer blinked owlishly.  
"I, uh... I don't know..." he answered lamely.   
Crowley groaned.  
"Why the fuck does that old idiot have to be the fastest available option?" he hissed, glaring at a subpar ranunculus before flinging it across the room.   
Aziraphale and Pulsifer looked at each other but said nothing.   
"So, uh... Pulsifer?" Aziraphale said a bit stiffly. "That's... hardly your Christian name?"  
"Oh, no, it's - it's Newton," the young man answered, pushing his glasses further up his nose.   
"Start hauling crates out and get them stacked in the van," Crowley interrupted. "And don't you dare get anything rumpled in there. And don't lose the cards. They're in the right places now but if you start throwing them around, we're fucked."

Fifteen minutes later Crowley was putting the finishing touches to the wreath and all the crates bar one had been stuffed into the van. Aziraphale had shuffled off to Anathema's shop on the promise that Crowley would come and fetch him if the phone rang and in exchange promising Crowley that he would try to talk the no doubt furious Yankee lady out of actually hexing Crowley.   
"I can't believe he keeps hiring that deranged old drunkard!" Anathema raged, furiously scraping aloe gel out of a piece of leaf and into a bowl in the backroom. Her work space was less orderly and efficient than Crowley's, assembled from a random mix of flea market finds, but it did house a very comfortable two-seater sofa, upholstered in a simply marvellous chintz-style fabric, on which Aziraphale had now parked his behind.   
"He needed that shelf put back up," he argued apologetically. "The sergeant had time. Look, I can perfectly understand why you don't much care for the man, but Crowley has been under quite a bit of pressure these last days, without much patience to spare, and Shadwell will turn up at any hour as long as there's quick buck to be made, you know that."  
Out in the yard, Crowley's voice could be heard.   
"And so help me, if you fuck up just one of my decorations -! And don't think I won't know!"  
Anathema shot the door a dirty look.   
"Bit rich, though, don't you think? Bringing him _here_?" she sneered.  
"Well, you never actually _told_ Crowley about the whole situation with your and the sergeant, so his chances of knowing were limited," Aziraphale countered, snuggling a little deeper into the sofa.  
Anathema paused for a split second then scoffed and grabbed a new slice of aloe leaf to take her anger out on.  
"And now there's another one of them," she continued in a huff. "And he's just as useless as the sergeant if not more so!"   
"He doesn't seem a bad sort," Aziraphale said with honesty. "I just think he's in it for the odd jobs. He doesn't strike me as _that_ sort, really."  
"He's still Shadwell's little henchman," Anathema sneered, grabbing a few small bottles of whatever from a shelf and dribbling a few drops from each into the aloe gel before whisking it furiously. Aziraphale suspected that it might have smelled delightful, had it not been for the fact that being in Anathema's backroom was roughly the same as sitting in a lit incense burner, olfactorily speaking - especially if one attended Tadfield St Dwynwen, since Aziraphale had taken to buying his incense for the church from Anathema since she had opened her shop.  
"Yes, well, for what it's worth, Marjie does occasionally try to bring it up with the sergeant that he needn't fret over you," Aziraphale said. "And I know for a fact that Crowley doesn't entertain his ideas either. He barely tolerates the man."  
"That's because Crowley's attitude towards things beyond his limited mind -"  
The backdoor was flung open. Outside stood Crowley, lighting a cigarette.  
"Fuck me!" he groaned, collapsing against the wall.   
"How are you, dear?" Aziraphale asked sympathetically.  
"Miserable, I hope," Anathema groused.  
"Well. Don't forget to tip your genie, Yankeerina, your wish has come true." Crowley shook his head pitifully, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. "I'm working up an ulcer just thinking about that idiot taking my flowers down the street!"  
Anathema glared, scooping aloe mix into neat little jars.   
"I hope he crashes into a lamp post and messes up your entire order," she said acidly.   
Aziraphale tutted.  
"Now, really. That's poor Ron Ormerod's entire funeral, that. You may dislike the sergeant, but Ron never hurt a fly," he scolded. Anathema looked moderately chastened but still glowered at Crowley who had slid down the wall to take a seat on the top step of the backstairs and stretched out his mile-long legs. The redhead took a long drag of his cigarette and blew out smoke through his nose.   
"Like I told sergeant Numpty, I'm not worried about whatever nursery rhymes you have plotted into that bullet journal of yours," he said languidly. Out of nowhere, he produced, much to Aziraphale's delight, the sandwich that Aziraphale had brought him earlier. He stubbed out his cigarette and threw the butt in what Aziraphale assumed to be vaguely the direction of the pot of sand on his own back steps. "Told him there's nothing to worry about, so what're you mad for?"  
"I'm mad because you keep funneling money into some old bastard who's tried to chase me out of the village. And because you call my _Grimoire_ a 'bullet journal'!"  
"It's note book with dried flowers taped to the pages and cat stickers on the inside of the cover," Crowley said disinterestedly as his spindly fingers fiddled their way through the sandwich wrapping. "I checked after knowing you for about a week and seeing the damn thing nearly everywhere you went. What am I about to eat, by the way?" he asked Aziraphale with an air that clearly suggested that he was quite done debating Anathema about her book.   
"BLT," Aziraphale replied, more than ready for a change of topic.   
Crowley made a noise of detached regret that seemed to imply that he had been a fool for getting his hopes up - not that Aziraphale could really think of a type of sandwich that Crowley might have actively _hoped_ for.  
"Not to your liking?" Aziraphale asked tersely. Honestly, the picky bastard! He was worse than a three-year-old!  
"Nah, it's fine," Crowley assured him - already in the process of plucking out the slices of tomato.   
Aziraphale scoffed lightly. Gently rebuffing people was clearly not something the redhead had time or energy for in that moment.   
Anathema scoffed as well, but not lightly.   
"Throw those in the trash!  
Crowley was stacking the soggy slices of tomato on the back step.   
"Yeah, yeah, later." He took a bite out of what was now just an BL sandwich.   
"Look, all I'm saying is that having Shadwell and his new buddy skulking around my shop where I spend most of my days is pretty annoying and could you _kindly_ not keep bringing them around?" Anathema groused.   
"You should appreciate how much credit he gives you and you mombo-jombo," Crowley argued. "The rest of us are fine with you 'cos we know all your spirit-talking, fortune-telling whatever is bollocks. At least Shadwell believes you!"  
Anathema looked in no way mollified by this.   
"I have a steady clientele who manage to be perfectly pleasant while not thinking it's bollocks. Father A doesn't think it's all bollocks," she countered with a steely look of victory in her eyes. "We agree on quite a number of things, don't we, Father?"  
Crowley looked at Aziraphale like they might as well just throw out the whole damn priest and start over.  
Aziraphale squirmed.   
"I, uh... I don't... I don't believe you've heard me quite right there, dear..." he stuttered. "I,-I believe that what I said, that night when you so kindly explained your beliefs to me, was that I found it all... a very interesting take... on things..."  
Anathema's face dropped along with Aziraphale's stomach.  
Crowley laughed in unblemished delight.  
"Well, honeys, I think I'm'na scram," he said, getting back on his feet. "Seems like you two have a coupl'a things to discuss..."

Crowley had been snickering to himself in the backroom, slowly getting stuck into another wedding centre piece, for about ten minutes, listening in to the muffled, indistinguishable sound of voices from the next-door shop when a flustered Aziraphale came staggering in.  
"You did that!" Aziraphale sneered shrilly.   
Crowley chortled.  
"I did not!" he grinned.   
"You pushed her! If you hadn't done that, she never would've brought me up as a defense and I wouldn't have had to have that talk just now!" Aziraphale fussed, plopping himself down on the steps leading upstairs. "I have enough on my plate as it is and now Anathema is cross with me as well! Has the phone rung?" he sulked.   
"Nah, don't think so," Crowley said disinterestedly. "What did she say?" he prodded with far more curiosity.   
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"She was just a bit bummed out that I didn't... share her ideas of the space between the Worlds and the journey of the passed-on soul to the extend that she thought..." he said. "Apparently she reckoned that my continued support for Marjie's seance business was a sign of some sort of... agreement. And that I was keeping an eye on Marjie. So now she's bothered that I'm not taking it seriously... And she's a bit miffed that you didn't take your tomato slices with you."  
"And here comes the Angel again," Crowley said, immediately kicking himself and nonetheless carrying on, because backing down now would be like admitting to something. "Supporting fraudulent old women this time, as they prey on the vulnerable."  
Aziraphale turned a bit pink about the ears and looked away, shrugging.  
"Yes, well... Some people like to believe that death doesn't mean the end of the conversation. If Marjie can bring them some comfort with a bit of smoke and mirrors... Mrs Ormerod has already been to see her, the poor soul," he argued. "And I'm telling Marjie that you called her that."  
Crowley sniffed.  
"No more bullshit than the stuff you're peddling every day, anyway," he conceded, returning his attention to his work. "Just surprised you can let well enough be about it."  
"Like I said, it brings people comfort. Brenda still comes to Mass several times a week," Aziraphale said with snooty magnanimity. "If she wishes to supplement her spirituality by spitting a few bucks in Marjie's hat too, I refuse to be ruffled."  
"The sergeant is ruffled about it, I take?" Crowley said.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Whatever gave you that idea?" he asked tersely.  
"What then puzzles me," Crowley said. "is how smitten he seems to be with you. Father this, your honour that... And all the while you're bosom friends with his public enemies one and two."  
Aziraphale shrugged.  
"A combination of wanting to suck up to the local bigwigs and wanting to keep me under observation," he said. "Lest the devil-raising harlots corrupt me or some such."   
"Hah, if only he knew..." Crowley muttered, plucking out a flower that needed a little more stem trimmed off.   
Aziraphale said nothing, but did frown a little.  
"What's the bishop think of it?" Crowley quickly asked, not wanting Aziraphale to think that he had meant anything with his remark that he was not supposed to be meaning out loud - and then wondering to himself why the Hell he thought bringing up the bishop had been a good idea.  
Aziraphale tutted and suddenly looked ten years older.  
"I don't think he knows about the seances," he said. "He does know about her... regular job. That's old hat, she's been at that since before I became the parish priest. It's bad enough, though. I'll bet you good money he would've brought that up today as well..."  
"But once again the Angel lets things be," Crowley concluded. "Church policies and the bishop's best intentions be damned."  
"I'm a priest! I'm meant to be tending my flock and looking after their best interests!" Aziraphale argued, actually a bit heatedly. Damn, Crowley almost liked it when he was passionate about his job. What a time to be alive..! "What good are policies if they're in the way of that?"  
Crowley held up his hands in surrender.  
"A'ight, a'ight."  
Aziraphale _did_ look ruffled now. He plucked out his pocket watch and looked at the time.  
"It's half eleven..." he pondered. "Bishop isn't always an early lunch sort of fellow..."  
"Stay for as long as you like," Crowley said.   
"I do need to be getting back to work..." Aziraphale grumbled. "But Deidre did say she would phone once the bishop had been in touch..."   
"Hey, you're out... tending," Crowley shrugged. "If not to your flock, at least to a struggling neighbour. Been force-feeding me an' all."  
"Not a fan of BLT?" Aziraphale asked, peering at the remains of the sandwich, which Crowley had placed on the corner of his worktable.   
"I'm just not good with tomatoes," Crowley quickly explained. "I'll tell you one thing, though," he continued thoughtfully. "if Pajama-banana there manages this delivery, I'm bringing him back in for the wedding one too. No way I'm getting out of bed tomorrow."   
"Anathema will be cross," Aziraphale said nervously.   
"Lad's done nothing!" Crowley argued. "If the looks he was shooting her shop while he loaded up the van were anything to go by, he'd be less fussed about sprinkling holy water on her front door and more interested in her backdoor, if y'know what I mean."  
Aziraphale blinked, then squawked horrifiedly.  
"Crowley!"  
Crowley cackled.  
"What? She could do worse! If coke bottle glasses and awkward hair do it for her, I suppose..." he noted with a shrug.   
"I don't think Anathema really has time for that sort of dalliances," Aziraphale said. "Keeps a busy schedule, that one."  
"What's an American got to do out here, of all places? I'm the odd one out already, but her?" Crowley asked. "She looks like the bloody tornado picked her up in Kansas and dropped her here."  
Aziraphale hummed.  
"From what I've understood, it started out as a family project. Apparently she had some kind of great grandmother who lived somewhere around here... Was accused of witchcraft and burned..."  
Crowley paused.   
"Might've been jolly nice of you _if you'd told me that_ ," he half-growled, glaring at Aziraphale.   
Aziraphale sniffed.  
"Struck me that it was Anathema's story to tell," he said, very visibly refuting any responsibility. "But anyway. Like I said, it started out as a family heritage project and then... I guess she got a taste for freedom. Being far away from the family, standing on her own two feet."  
"Overbearing sorts?"  
"I haven't really asked," Aziraphale said. "It's just stuff I've deduced, sort of. Put together along the way as she's mentioned bits and pieces."   
"Families are tricky," Crowley said slowly.  
Aziraphale sighed.  
"Aren't they just," he said quietly, folding his hands in his lap. "Yours too?" he inquired politely.  
Crowley chewed on the inside of his cheek.  
"Ngk..."   
Aziraphale cocked his head with an insufferably empathetic and concerned look on his face.   
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't -"  
"How's the roof?" Crowley interrupted. It was a bit of a low blow, but he needed a change of topic. "The church roof. Didn't it rain last night?"  
Aziraphale's face dropped and Crowley hated himself. The blond wrung his hands.  
"I haven't actually been up to look... We've had some tarp put up, of course, to try to keep the elements out, but I, uh..." he sighed. "I just haven't the nerve."   
"How's the fundraising going?" Crowley asked. The church could burn for all he cared, but Aziraphale looked wrecked just thinking about it and it tugged on heart strings he had not realised he even had.  
Aziraphale rubbed his forehead.  
"Deidre is sending out application upon application. We'll... we'll get there some day," he said bravely, but Crowley could hear the frustration and worry in his voice. He was about to try his hand at some sort of word of support, however he was meant to go about doing that when honestly wishing death upon the project he was trying to be supportive about. He was spared trying to navigate those particular treacherous waters as the phone rang, both in the office above and in the shop.   
Aziraphale shot up.  
"Oh. That'll be Deidre! The danger - I mean the, uhm, the bishop..! He must've... must've been in touch..."  
"What a pity you weren't available," Crowley drawled, as the blond shuffled into the shop to answer the phone.  
"Quite," Aziraphale said with grave sincerity as he lifted the receiver. "Tadfield Flowers? Ah, yes, I thought it would be you. All clear then?"   
Crowley smirked to himself as Aziraphale hung up the phone.   
"I should be going now," Aziraphale explained.  
Crowley hummed.  
"Leaving me to deal with my new neighbour feud all alone?" he pouted. Because his plan to 'back off and let Aziraphale decide on things' apparently meant nothing.  
Aziraphale snickered.  
"She'll come around. Maybe you should cut down on Shadwell's visits, but it'll be alright eventually."  
Crowley smirked.  
"Keep telling yourself that," he said. When Aziraphale shot him a bit of a look, he tried his hand at a reassuring smile. "It'll be alright," he elaborated.   
Aziraphale's face did an awfully complicated thing where it went all soft. He took a deep breath and nodded.  
"Yes. Oh, uh... Heh, I suppose it's for the best, but uh, with the funeral and all... I mentioned this to Anathema too, just before - poker night is cancelled. Doesn't seem entirely appropriate, gambling just after burying one of the local pillars of community."  
Crowley shrugged.   
"That's fair enough," he said, disappointment filling his gut. He had looked forward to that... To seeing Aziraphale. However, missing a night in Anathema's company did seem advisable until she decided to calm her American farm.   
"Oh, and speaking of - you're sending flowers, right?" Aziraphale asked, hand on the handle of the shop door.  
Crowley blinked.   
"I've done all the bloody flowers!" he argued. "They're all from me, really, if you're wanna be a stickler."  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"He did your plumbing," he argued. His brows raised sky-high. "If Brenda notices - and she _will_ \- you'll never live it down."  
Crowley groaned.  
"I need to get on with these wedding decorations, seriously..!" he whined.   
Aziraphale shot him a bit of a look. His let his eyes wander around the shop, rubbing his hands together. Then, with a small, pleased noise, he bent down and swiped a pre-made bouquet of white flowers from a bucket and then dove behind the counter and fished out a blank piece of card stock. He scribbled something on the card and stuck it in the flowers.   
"See. It will be alright," he said cheerfully, rustling the bouquet. "I'll just take these back to the church for you, shall I?"   
Crowley nodded.   
"Uh. Ph. Yeah, cool. Cheers."  
Aziraphale beamed.   
"I'll be seeing you around, dear," he said before slipping out, leaving Crowley to slave his way through the rest of wedding decorations, with a head buzzing with bright smiles and 'dear's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking hate this chapter. I can genuinely only apologise.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sunday 11th June**

Aziraphale had finished a very satisfying Sunday Mass, giving a sermon on the second Corinthians and treated himself to an early lunch after a job well done. Now he was going to do a bit of cross wording - or he had meant to anyway. He had pulled out his magazine and everything, but he kept _thinking_.  
It had been a very quiet couple of days since the whole debacle on Thursday. Given that a scream as loud as the one which had been heard over Egypt as the Lord's plagues struck, had not been heard over Oxfordshire, and that the funeral flowers had all been safely and neatly delivered, Aziraphale had figured that young Pulsifer would be returning to do another delivery gig on Friday and that as a consequence, Anathema would still be in a... less pleased mood. He had swung by her shop, as she was closing up on Friday afternoon, after a well-done job on the wedding, under the discreet pretense of needing to stock up on incense and had tried to talk her down a little. And inquire to how Crowley's general state of being had seemed that morning. Young Newton had seemed rather flustered as he dropped off the flowers for the church, but then again, the young fellow always did.   
Anathema had still been lightly seething over seeing Newton on the premises again and simply snipped that Crowley had been a no-show that morning, leaving Newton to fend for himself with a hand-written note of which colour codings meant what. The American had almost seemed sympathetic to the lad, in what Aziraphale assumed to be the unison found in commiseration.   
Aziraphale could use a bit of that. Commiseration... Not had he had much to be miserable over at the moment, wot with the nightmare bride having been expedited... But it might be nice to have a little chat about everything and nothing with Crowley. Thursday morning had not been at all unpleasant, in spite of some the topics discussed being a tad delicate. It had all been very friendly, as polite as one could expect from the overwrought Crowley, and _definitely not flirty._ No, sir. Not in the least bit flirty. Any trace of 'leaning in', any winks, any suggestively dropped hips - all of it had vanished.   
Aziraphale was staunchly unbothered by this. Of course he was. He had no business not being bothered, so why would he be bothered?? He was, in fact, quite pleased that things had mellowed out between Crowley and himself. That they were apparently just becoming friends. That Crowley had toned it down a notch. Aziraphale quite liked having friends, of course he did, and as chaotic as he was, Crowley was a lovely... specimen. For a friend.  
Yes. Aziraphale was most pleased that whatever... non-platonic bug had bitten Crowley had passed and that he, Aziraphale, would no longer be... pestered by flirty gingers with too-long legs and snake-hips and extraordinary, yellow eyes... He was not the least bit sorry to have been deprived of that impossible and unsuitable, but somewhat flattering attention. He had better things to worry about! Such as this cross word of his. Yes... His cross word...  
"Nine across... Greek hero, starts with a 'P'..."  
There was a roar of an engine, screeching of tires in the gravel outside and then the front door of the rectory was flung open violently. Aziraphale flinched, nearly dropping his crossword.  
"We don't even have cable net!"  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"Uh.. Come in?" he offered tetchily, still reeling from the shock.   
Crowley strutted through into the living room with a riled-up look on his face.  
"Don't mind if I do! I brought your blazer!" He held up the garment before draping it carefully across the back of Aziraphale's desk chair. "Sorry about the time it took, I've been sleeping like a frozen tardigrade since two in the morning on Friday."  
"Oh! Oh, that's lovely, thank you! That, uh... sounds like some very... thorough sleep?" Aziraphale suggested, slightly perplexedly.   
"Oh! It was _extraordinary_!" Crowley said, strolling closer. "Face first, on the sofa. The best sleeps are the ones on the sofa, honestly. Hadn't a _clue_ what year it was when I woke up, it was brilliant!" he rambled. "Oh and I brought you peas." A brown paper bag dropped down onto the cushion next to Aziraphale.  
"Goodness, you've been bu -"  
Crowley nearly landed on top of the peas as he dramatically flung himself onto the sofa.   
"So back to what I was saying; What in the fresh Hell is this dump?? We don't even have cable net!" the redhead howled.  
Aziraphale fiddled with the buttons on his waistcoat.   
"I... No, I don't suppose we do..?" he suggested defensively. He set his crossword aside and snuck out a hand to snatch up the bag of peas before Crowley could plant a knee in it.   
"What is this place??" Crowley whined. "The land that time forgot?! This needs to be fixed!"   
Aziraphale searched the muddy corners of his brain as he fiddled his way into the first pod of peas. He vaguely remembered something he had heard on the news at one time or other.  
"But.. isn't that sorta thing awfully expensive to acquire?" he asked, wrinkling his nose thoughtfully as he chewed. "Where are these from?" he asked, holding up the empty pod.   
"Not if the entire village pulled their finger out at the same time." Crowley supplied with a business-like purse of his lips. "Oh, and uh, I was out for a drive and came by that place. They had peas, so I figured... Pfft."  
Aziraphale raised a brow.  
"Yes, well... The children do occasionally complain that the connection isn't up to par..." Aziraphale conceded carefully. "But I don't really think theres a collective interest... Perhaps if we had more young people in the village. Anathemas age or so..." he trailed off, neatly placing his empty pod on top of his crossword.   
"And you know why you don't?" Crowley said excitedly, twisting himself impossibly around, pointing a bony finger up at Aziraphale. "'Cos you live in the bum of nowhere with no bloody internet! People ain't gonna move here if they can't run Pornhub smoothly."  
Aziraphale was not about to share any personal experience he may or may not have in that department, least of all with Crowley. Instead he sniffed and puttered off to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Crowley followed him.  
"I'm sure the Fowlers at the kiosk will be perfectly happy to keep their shelf of adult magazines adequately stocked," Aziraphale said primly as he filled the electric kettle.  
Crowley blew a raspberry at him.   
"Aw, yuck! No one buys porno mags anymore. Sheesh. This place needs to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century, it does.". He flung himself against the edge of the counter, crossing his arms agitatedly.  
"Hm.. would explain why there doesn't appear to be much flow on that shelf," Aziraphale agreed absentmindedly, mainly just to placate Crowley while he got the kettle brewing.   
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"Oho. Keeping tabs, Father?" he cackled.  
"The bishop likes us to keep an eye on the sort of degenerate material on the loose in our parishes," Aziraphale replied aloofly while digging through his messy tin can of assorted tea bags in different random flavours and quietly reveling in the banter.  
"Just quietly judging whatever unnamed sod went and paid money for 'Linda's wild booty party'," Crowley snickered.  
"You do keep saying the Church likes to judge people for their perceived moral shortcomings," Aziraphale smirked with a nonchalant shrug, eying a bag of Cylon tea appraisingly.  
"Everyone loves to judge other peoples porn habits." Crowley conceded.  
"I don't judge that sort of things. It's low-hanging fruit," Aziraphale retorted snootily.   
"It's only human to go for low-hanging. Eve never would've bitten of that apple if she'd had to go climbing," Crowley argued, twisting to lean sideways against the counter instead and running a through his hair.   
Aziraphale might have potentially enjoyed that view. Thank goodness that all was completely platonic between them..! Crowley just had lovely hair, was all!   
"But you think better internet would entice more young people to move here?," he asked, grabbing the conversation by the lapels and manhandling it back on track. "I rather thought the appeal of moving to the country from the city was the simpler life."  
"Simpler, not primitive." Crowley said exasperatedly. "Like I said, people still want their Pornhub. Give them that and the house prices would skyrocket, I promise ya. People could sell their houses without the bank complaining, pay off their mortgages, move wherever the fuck they'd rather be - boom! New young couples moving in! More kids in the school and more business for local contractors when everyone needs their wallpaper from the 80s done over and their roof painted! And! More baptisms and weddings for you!"  
The kettle started steaming and clicked off.  
"It all sounds rather lovely, but why exactly are you telling me all this?" Aziraphale asked as he filled the teapot and dropped in his chosen bag of tea. "Wouldn't it be more relevant to buy someone from the village council a pint or two and chew their ear off down at the Apple Tree?"  
Crowley waved a dismissive hand.  
"Meh, takes too long. Too many pints, too many ears, my jaw will get sore from all the chewing. So I thought maybe you could bring it up at one of your next socials. Tomorrow or summat.."  
Aziraphale frowned, then bristled.   
"My next soci - are you referring to Mass?! You had better not -"  
Crowley's face was a study of affronted innocence behind his glasses.  
"Why not?" he asked.  
Aziraphale sputtered.  
"Because! I can't suggest getting better internet at Mass!" he howled, grabbing a cup and saucer and the teapot and marching back to the living room.  
"Surely you give out community info after Mass!" Crowley badgered on, trailing behind him. "We're in the middle of nowhere, that's how things are done out here!"  
"Not this sort of thing! It's just not... proper!" Aziraphale argued.   
"Is propriety more important than keeping the village alive?" Crowley asked intently.   
"The village is fine!" Aziraphale groaned vexedly, carefully setting down the teapot on a thick crocheted coaster on the side table behind the sofa and his cup beside it.  
"So.. you're not suggesting better internet for improved porn browsing at the end of your sermon tomorrow?" Crowley asked slowly, ignoring the last remark, refusing to rise to such obvious bait.  
"Or any other day for the matter! Good grief!" Aziraphale said with outrage. "If you want a job done, do it yourself!"  
It took him a beat to realise what that last sentence could have sounded like but _thankfully things were not like that anymore_ and he was spared any... salacious suggestions. Which would have been most unwanted, obviously. So he was very glad to be spared. Very glad...  
Crowley made a regretful noise and arranged himself prettily on the arm of the sofa while Aziraphale fished out another pea pod and swatted at Crowley's leg to get his boot off the cushions. The level of disappointment on the redhead's face - bar the small hiss as his knee was walloped -was more in line with someones who's vague suggestion of mischief had been turned down by a friend rather than someone who felt genuinely let down on an important matter but all the same it tugged at Aziraphale's heart strings.  
"But.. I suppose you're right about the mortgage repayments and the need for more children in the school," he sighed. "It's bad enough they have to go to Norton for secondary these days because we couldn't keep our own going. Imagine if the primary in Upper closed down too... It might be advisable to do something or other."  
Crowley had been picking absentmindedly at the buckle of his belt but now he looked up.   
"You do realise I came here whining because my connection is slow and it annoyed me when I was watching people fall on their arses on Youtube, right?" he asked, choking down a grin.  
Aziraphale smirked and burrowed a little deeper into the sofa cushions, grabbing his crossword again.   
"If it'll support the village I'm willing to overlook the fact that you'd be getting your selfish way," he said primly, clicking his pen open.  
Crowley grinned and got up off the sofa arm.   
"You have a standpoint 'till you have a new one."  
Aziraphale quirked a brow and smothered a smile, aloofly considering his crossword, pen now tapping against his chin.  
"Menace," he retaliated calmly.  
Crowley cackled as he swaggered out the door. Just as he was about to close it Aziraphale called out, freezing Crowley in his tracks;  
"And good luck with Redtube."  
Crowley's brain jumped straight into fifth gear.   
There were two options here; either Aziraphale was an old bloody lady and had accidentally misremembered "Youtube" in an... unfortunate way. Or he knew exactly what he was saying.  
Crowley slowly turned, frantically debating these two options.. The sight that met him was Aziraphale doing a poor impression of innocently prodding at his crossword, the most bastardous ghost of a smirk playing in one corner of his mouth.  
Option number two then... What in the -   
"Right. Yeah. Guh. Cheers..." Crowley mumbled, stumbling backwards down the front steps, nearly tripping over. "Uhffk... Bye..."  
"Goodbye, now."  
Crowley closed the door behind him and took a moment to blink a few times before shaking his head and racing back home to his shower in his Bentley. Alright, so he had gone to the rectory in hopes of... grifting a bit of positive attention off Aziraphale. And he would be the first to admit that he might have gone a bit over board by nipping out to buy peas. But he had sworn that there would be no more flirting unless Aziraphale gave some sort of sign that he was actually amenable, so he had had to do something else to get his attention-fix. That, and the snacks had seemed like a sure-fire way to make Aziraphale sit still and listen while Crowley pitched his idea, that he had genuinely been toying with.   
All of that had, however, not actually added up to Aziraphale making lewd-ish comments, in _any_ scenario Crowley had imagined. Shit. Aziraphale might as well have wished Crowley 'good luck wanking'..! What in the..?!  
Meanwhile, back at the rectory, Aziraphale was having half a panic attack.Why had he said that? What in the World had prompted him to say that!? That had been a terrible idea. Flat-out awful. The worst he had had in many years! Things had been so... platonic and well-behaved and proper. Crowley had been so nice! Considerate. Had brought Aziraphale peas and fixed his blazer and had just swung by to talk about an idea he had had. And then Aziraphale had to go and make things weird with that _stupid, pathetic comment_..!  
His crossword was completely scrunched up and sweaty in his hands. For several long minutes he clung to it desperately trying to calm his furiously beating heart. Oh, this was silly. Crowley had seemed a bit thrown off, sure, but... it was not the sort of joke a priest should be making, that was all, surely. He had just been taken by surprise. That meant the joke had worked. Right?   
Aziraphale swallowed hard and nodded to himself. Yes. Yes, his joke had worked. That was all it was. A joke. Just like when Crowley flirted with Marjorie. That was all that had been and surely Crowley would be smart enough to realise that.   
Crowley had stopped flirting. Had lost interest. So there was no way he could take Aziraphale's _awful_ comment as anything but a joke. Why would he take it seriously?   
That should have been a reassuring thought. Instead it made Aziraphale's tongue feel like it was withering in his mouth and burning the inside of his stomach. He had no business being upset over this, damn it!   
He sighed and gave up on his half-soaked crossword. He remembered his tea and poured himself a cup. He tried not to think too hard about much of anything as he slowly sipped it.

As a direct consequence of Aziraphale's coy little remark, Crowley's poor under-qualified internet connection got plenty of exercise over the course of the rest of that afternoon, interspersed with sessions of growling and swearing when the damn thing faltered and the videos ended up buffering for 20 minutes at a time. Finally, when the same bloke had been stuck for no less than 25 minutes with his maw wide open and tongue hanging out while a little white dot ran in circles over his left eye, Crowley had given up, slammed his MacBook shut and gone to bed to sulk.   
Now, a restless night, a morning wank in the shower, and a boring Monday morning at the shop later, Crowley had closed up for lunch and set off towards the church grounds, jaw set with determination.   
He poked his head into the small office building. Inside he found only Deidre, typing away on her laptop, cross-referencing with a journal full of writing, neatly highlighted in different colours.  
"Hello, Crowley. I don't believe you have any deliveries today -" she said with a surprised look on her face.  
"Actually, I'm here to see you," Crowley said leisurely, sauntering up to her desk and perching himself on the corner. "It's the village hall," he explained as Deidre blinked owlishly up at him. He nodded in the general direction of the building at the bottom of the lot. "I need it. I figured I'd have to talk to you guys about that."  
"Oh! Sure. When?" Deidre asked, clicking about on her screen for a second, pulling up a calendar.   
"As soon as," Crowley said, leaning in closer to peer at the calendar. It had a few things plotted in during evenings over the course of the four weeks that were visible on the screen, and one full day on a Saturday. Crowley did not waste time trying to decipher the tiny typeface.   
"So, what do you need it for?" Deidre asked with polite curiosity.  
"I'm summoning the Dark Council," Crowley said with a smirk. Deidre looked confused. "I'm calling a meeting about some improvements I think the village could stand to undergo." He sighed, this next bit irked him but when needs must... "I take it there's a deposit or something?" he asked, barely keeping a snarl in check.   
Deidre considered him for a second.  
"If it's a village welfare thing..." she said. "And it's just one evening... We could probably do it for free?" she asked more than said, as if waiting to gauge Crowley's reaction.  
Crowley did his best impression of a blush.  
"Aw, shucks, Moneypenny, you shouldn't have," he crowed.   
Deidre giggled.   
"So when do you want to do it?" he asked.  
"I have every faith that you'll have a good recommendation," Crowley purred, posing himself on the desk, one leg on top of the other.   
Deidre considered the calendar.  
"You know what?" she started.  
"I don't, darling, but I'm sure you're about to blow my mind," Crowley growled, lips pursed, practically collapsing across the computer keyboard.   
"Esh. Father A is right, you are a menace," Deidre tittered, cheeks pink. "But my recommendation - put up posters today, now, before lunch, and then I'll book you in for Thursday night at half past eight?"  
Crowley paused in his effort to tie himself in a fetching knot on the surface of the desk and sniffed.  
"Posters..?"  
"To let people know to come to meeting," Deidre said.   
Crowley blinked.  
"Isn't there a... village Facebook group or something..?" he asked with mounting horror. These unbelievable turnip peasants...  
Deidre shook her head.   
"I'm afraid not, no..." she said, seeming surprised to even hear such a thing suggested.   
Crowley whined thinly in the back of his throat.    
"A phone chain then?" he asked, getting some serious flashbacks to his childhood.   
"Not for that sort of thing," Deidre said apologetically.   
Crowley slowly counted to ten inside his head.   
"Alright. Posters. I'll get posters..." he groaned. He scowled at the desktop screen as if the calendar on there was responsible for this ridiculous collective technological impairment. "So... Thursday, half eight?"  
Deidre nodded.  
"I'll plot you right in."  
"Do the, no doubt luxurious, local facilities include a projector?" Crowley asked, only slightly sardonically.   
Deidre smiled.   
"There's an overhead projector available, yes," she said pleasantly.  
Crowley returned the smile for about 0.3 seconds, then his face fell again.  
"You mean one of those... light-up thingiebob tables with a mirror and one wheel broken and then you put a cut-up punched pocket on top with a felt tip pen drawing??"  
Deidre giggled but nodded.   
Crowley groaned. Holy fuck, this was going to be a thing...  
"Right," he ground out. "Cheers..." He pilfered a couple of sheets of paper from the printer next to Deidre's computer.   
Back at her shop in the high street, about ten minutes later, Anathema found herself somewhat rudely pulled out of any sulking that she might not have been quite finished with as Crowley nearly kicked down her shop door and swaggered in, paper and markers in hand, demanding that she get over herself and lend him a hand, all in the interest of the greater good.

_Thursday, 15th June_

Thursday next week had rolled around. It was nearly eight o'clock and Crowley was perched on the edge of the the most hideous yellow plastic community hall table he had ever seen in his life, shuffling through his jumbled handful of plastic sheets, mostly stuff about house pricing and property value that the numbers guy - Norton? - had supplied. He had gotten carefully interested in the project, going as far as to supply his own overhead plastic sheets. Crowley had decided to take that as a good sign.  
He heard the front door open and. After some initial grumbling and sneering - and serving as a second practice dummy for Crowley's pitch - Anathema warmed up, both to Crowley and his idea and had both helped with the posters _and_ promised to help with the chairs, the latter out of sheer gloating glee that Crowley was _getting properly involved in the community 'like a good little villager'_.   
Crowley made some sort of noise in greeting, still putting the sheets back in correct numerical order.   
"Hey 'Nathema, could you -"  
Crowley looked up and stopped mid-sentence. Aziraphale was standing on the threshold between the entry way and the main hall, chewing on his lip.   
"Good evening..." he said tentatively with a small wave.  
It had not escaped Crowley's attention that their interactions since their little... conversation about the joys the internet had been brief, scarce and suspiciously pink around the ears, at least on Aziraphale's part while Crowley himself had, of course, maintained all sorts of _cool_...  
"Hullo," he said with a small nod.   
Aziraphale puttered further into the room, hands clasped behind his back.  
"So... You really went through with this," he said, nodding slightly to himself. He smiled unsurely at Crowley. It looked like he struggled to decide exactly how much he wanted to smile.  
Crowley was a tad offended that his entrepreneurial properties were being doubted, but insanely excited to see Aziraphale once again inserting himself into situations with Crowley, entirely out of his own volition.  
"Come to see the monkey perform then? he asked with a dry smirk, abandoning the plastic sheets and getting started on the setting up the chairs. It seemed like a better look than sitting on his arse, waiting for Anathema to come and do it for him.   
"I thought I'd check to see if there was anything you needed," Aziraphale said.   
Crowley tried to push one of the tables up against the wall only to realise it weighed a ton.   
"You could pop the kettle on, make us some coffee?" he suggested acidly while his boots slipped on the linoleum floor and the table barely moved at all.   
Aziraphale lit up and nodded, scurrying off to the kitchen.  
"I'll make a few pots of hot water for tea as well!" he said chipperly before abandoning Crowley to battle with the stubborn table on his own. Did the man even know that sarcasm as a concept existed??  
Luckily Anathema arrived shortly after to help Crowley out and by the time people started trickling in they had the tables pushed out of the way and the chairs arranged in neat rows.   
Crowley plugged in the age-old overhead projector. There was no actual screen to shine it onto, just a large patch of naked wall, but it would have to do. Crowley sighed inwardly and spun on his heels to look over the crowd. A few more people than the chair capacity was ready to service had, surprisingly, turned up, including Deidre's kid and his weedy friend with the glasses. They'd seated themselves on a table turned upside down on one of its mates. As Crowley watched, Deidre's boy slipped two lollipops out of his pockets and sneakily passed one to his friend. They both looked excited to be allowed in on the to-do. In the front row Arpee sat, ramrod straight and with a suspicious look on his face, once again eyeing Crowley up and down with disdain. Crowley smiled sweetly at him, the smile only growing as the older man visibly bristled.  
Out in the entryway Aziraphale shut and locked the door.  
"Right. That's it," he announced chipperly. "Jolly kind of you all to show an interest. We're not letting anymore people in now, the fire authority would have our hides..." He nodded encouragingly at Crowley. "Buck up, old boy. Take it away!" he beamed, punching an enthusiastic hole in the air.  
Crowley cringed inwardly and tried to shake his head in a way that only Aziraphale would notice but gave up. Instead he cleared his throat and threw sheet number one onto the projector, a front page sort of thingbearing the writing 'What Cable Net Can Do For You' that Crowley had badgered Anathema into writing for him. He had badgered her into writing all his overhead sheets too, truth be told. His handwriting was... not reassuring. Not for this sort of thing. Nor was his spelling, obviously.   
He put his hands together, hard, and smiled at the crowd of skeptically frowning faces in front of him.  
"A'ight, listen. You've got yourselves a proper cute little village going on here. Fresh air and open space and whatnot," he said, gesturing vaguely about him. "But the thing is - I've been going around, checking out the sights lately and one thing I seen is a 'for sale' sign that looks like it was put there 'round the same time the damn house was built! You all know better than me which one I'm talking about. So I guess fresh air doesn't sell as much as you'd think, no? And isn't that a crying shame? Loses a bit of its charm, village life, once you realise you'll never actually be able to leave again, innit? It becomes a sweater that you've been fine in all day but once your head's stuck, you don't like it quite so much." He exchanged the front page slide for one with a drawing of a jumper that Anathema had been adamant was definitely not a good move. "Is that what you want your village to be? A sweater? 'Course not! So here's where I come in, with a few ideas as to how we can do that, yeah? I have, in association with my dear neighbour, Neville -"  
"Norman," a tall man in an ugly gingham button-down and turtleshell glasses interrupted haltingly, raising a hand to wave to his neighbours from an aisle seat near the front. He was a local accountant that Anathema had suggested getting involved to do a bit of maths to back the project. He had seemed skeptical at first, which had not been too promising, but a few days later he had called back, his interest considerably piqued as he had apparently crunched a few numbers and liked the result.   
"Yes, you," Crowley said, waving a hand. "We've come up with a little suggestion to make things a bit less woolly for all of you;" He grabbed the slide, flung it off to one side and put down the next. "Cable net. A nice, fast, smooth internet connection," Crowley explained, gesturing broadly towards the projected image of a bullet point list of talking points for the night on the wall. "to serve as a reliable link between your idyllic little patch of Heaven and the modern world. A spot of fertiliser for the ol' housing prices, a safety net for those of you who worry about mortgage repayments in the current market. A bone to throw the potential buyers as they worry they wont be able to pull their arms out of the sleeves," he continued, now strutting back and forth in front of the projector. "But -!" He stopped in his track and spun to face the audience. "I'm sure you're thinking - what's this guy know about that? Never you fear!" He held up his hands placatingly. "I don't expect you to take my word for it. That's why I brought in help to do the figures, which will now be presented to you -" He stepped back and flung out a hand. "Take it away, Nigel!"  
"Norman," Number Guy repeated as he shuffled out of his seat to stand next to the projector and exchanged Crowley's slide for one of his own - a properly printed thing with a table of figures in two columns - and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "Erhm, yes, I've looked at the figures, both the expenses and the potential gain, as Mr Crowley here said, there would actually be something to be won from undertaking this operation..."

The meeting was over. Noel, the accountant bloke had knocked it out of the park with price comparisons before and after the installment of cable net in a rural village area similar to Tadfield and Crowley felt like he himself had done a good job sealing the deal with his summary of the actual installation process as it had been explained to him by some fellow from a company he had spoken to on the phone for a preliminary quote when testing if his idea was even feasible. He was also quite pleased with the, even for him, exceedingly smooth move he had pulled, which had consisted of very deliberately not looking at Arpee's scowling face in the front row and enthusiastically listing a few, more practical benefits of better internet, such as HD webcam surveillance, which would surely be a comfort to everyone in the village since the nearest police station was a while's way away. This in turn had prompted Peregrin in the back row to stick up a hand and cite 'a fair grasp on computers' as a skill he would like to offer up to anyone interested - once the cable net had been installed, of course, as Crowley gleefully pointed out that it would have to be before anything else could happen. In the privacy of his mind, Crowley had promised himself to slip the kid an extra tenner next time he did a flower delivery.   
All in all, Crowley was well chuffed with himself and what he had managed to whip up as he emptied half pot of weak coffee into the parish hall kitchen sink. Surely they would be persuaded to support the idea, given Crowley's reassuring nature - and his promise of a hefty discount on plants, should any gardens take damage in the process. All that was left now, was to set up a list at the pub where people could sign up with their addresses if they wanted in on the venture.   
Crowley whistled to himself as he watched the contents of the thermos vanish down the drain.  
"That's all everything put back to rights," Aziraphale said behind him .The priest had insisted on staying on afterwards to help put the chairs away. "Anathema said goodnight, she's nipped home."  
Crowley nodded. He held up the thermos.  
"Do these go in the washer?"  
"Just scald it and pop it upside down on a couple of sheets of tissue," Aziraphale said. He strolled over and grabbed the age-old electric kettle and filled it. "Do you know..." he said slowly as he clicked the kettle on and turned to look at Crowley. "At first I figured you were just... thinking out loud. When Deidre said you had booked this place, I was honestly unsure what was going to happen, but... you really went ahead and _did_ this."  
Crowley quirked a brow. He was about to make some salty remark or other, but Aziraphale continued;  
"I'm actually think this might be going somewhere. I'm really quite impressed."  
"I'm an impressive guy," Crowley rumbled, doing his best pout, leaning elegantly against the kitchen counter.   
Aziraphale giggle-snorted. His eyes darted away for a moment.  
"Rather..."  
Crowley's mouth went a bit dry. Now _that_. That was flirting in every single language known to mankind, surely.   
"So, ngh... You reckon it'll work?" he asked, instead of melting into a pool of goo with a hard-on sticking up in the middle.  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"I think it could work, yes indeed," he said sincerely. "You did a cracking good job. Bringing in Norman was a very clever move."  
Had Crowley been a slightly better person he would have shared the credit for that one with Anathema. Crowley was, however, not.   
"I don't suppose you'll be joining up?" he asked.  
Aziraphale hummed. The kettle turned itself off and he began slushing boiling water about in the empty thermoses.   
"I'll have to talk to Deidre and then she'll have to talk to the diocese," he said. "Every penny we can spare is going towards saving up for the roof, so we'll have to apply for an extra grant... Which we most likely won't get," he sighed.   
Crowley clicked his tongue.  
"They haven't found an extra thirty grand sitting around in a dark corner?"   
Aziraphale shook his head.   
"Sadly not," he said with a tight smile. He stood the last thermos upside-down on a napkin and folded his hands over his stomach. "Ready to go?"  
"Yeah,yeah... Wait, am I supposed to clean up or something?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale smiled.  
"I swept the floor. That'll have to do. Cleaning comes in tomorrow anyway," he said. "Key?"   
Crowley fished out the key to the front door from his back pocket. It had an absolutely hideous braided paracord thing that looked suspiciously like something Deidre's kid might have  
brought home from school.   
"Got it."  
"Give it here," Aziraphale said, holding out a hand. "I'll lock up and take it with me straight away so you won't have to worry about that tomorrow."   
Crowley dropped the key into the proffered palm. And maybe let his hand brush a little against Aziraphale's while he was at it. He was rewarded with a blush spreading across Aziraphale's cheeks.  
"Ah. Thank you. ...Shall we?"   
Crowley hummed and strolled out as Aziraphale held the door open for him. They walked together to the Bentley. Crowley leaned on the roof.  
"Goodnight," he offered as Aziraphale seemed to stall a little.   
"Oh? Oh, yes. Goodnight, my dear," Aziraphale said, still looking a bit flushed. "I, uh... Yes. Goodnight." He scurried off, up the steps to the rectory. Before he slipped inside, he shot Crowley one last look.  
In the growing darkness and through his glasses, Crowley could not be quite sure... But he was at least half-willing to swear he had seen Aziraphale _bat his lashes_ at him before vanishing inside.   
Maybe this whole 'community spirit' thing was something Crowley ought to do more about...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent chapter lengths? Never heard of her. What's this bitch been saying about me? LOL Enjoy a long'un, folks :P I thought of making it two chapters but fuck it, I wanted to get a bit of a move on.
> 
> And check out who's posting early! Who even am I??


	17. Chapter 17

_Sunday, 25th June_

Crowley was sunning in the yard after a long day of self-care which had included watering all his plants, washing his Bentley and touching up his roots with a bit of DIY hair-dying. He was naturally bright auburn, the pride of which they could pry from his cold dead hands and not a moment sooner, but he had spiced up his home-grown copper shade with a bit of store-bought since he was 20, so why stop now - especially since his temples had decided that maybe going grey would be a fun thing to do.   
His hair topped up, his skin was next, he had decided, and so had crashed down on his sunbed, shorts still soaked after the car wash - he had caught Marjie waving at him from her upstairs window across the street as he was scrubbing the wind screen of the Bentley, and had put on a bit of a show, since community spirit was his new thing and all, leaving him drenched from the sternum down while Marjie laughed at him.   
Wet t-shirt discarded, bluetooth speaker braying out Queen and a hefty coating of tan intensifier in place, Crowley was now enjoying the fact that he was one of roughly 7 redheaded people in the UK who could actually get a tan.  
As he lay there, getting warmed through like a snake on a rock, he thought about the whole Aziraphale situation and wondered where the Hell he was going with it all. Since the cable net meeting, he had made a few carefully suggestive remarks and Aziraphale had always acted equally carefully scandalised, only to look secretly pleased when he thought Crowley did not see - or perhaps he knew damn well that Crowley did in fact see...   
If you looked at that part of it, it was fairly easy to tell where it was all headed - straight into bed with clothes strewn all over the floor. But if you looked at everything else, including who Aziraphale was as a person, their entire situation and the circumstances surrounding the two of them even associating - it became a lot more complicated.   
Aziraphale was so... proper? Nah, not proper, he was a results kind of bloke, deep down. Decent? Conscientious was a word Crowley would often mentally ascribe to the priest. He seemed unlikely to end up with his clothes strewn across anyone's bedroom floor...  
Perhaps he was simply enjoying the attention. Toying with Crowley a little, enjoying a spot of no-strings flirtation.   
The thought pained Crowley, but not as much as the fact that, at least for the time being, he did not actually care why things were the way they were. He enjoyed Aziraphale's flushed cheeks and coy smiles far, far too much to give a damn. He decided it did not count as 'being used' when he got enough in return in the form of dopamine boosts to rival a golden retriever getting an ear-scratching. Crowley hated how alright he was being relegated to an existence as a priest's golden retriever...  
No. Not 'a priest's'... _Aziraphale's._  
He had just flopped onto his stomach, contemplating the achy bitter-sweetness of feeling a reluctant respect for Aziraphale's above-board ways while reveling in any scraps of indecency thrown his way, when someone cleared their throat, rather loudly, in order to be heard over the sound of the music. Pushing down his glasses and cracking open one eye, Crowley raised his head and looked over his shoulder to find Aziraphale awkwardly stood by the Bentley, twiddling his thumbs.  
Crowley put a sock in Freddie.   
"May I help you?" he asked pleasantly, quirking a brow and rolling onto his back again - and potentially striking a bit of a pose, prone and half-naked as he was on his sunbed. Things had been getting... a bit funny between them since the cable net meeting. A flickering sort of tension that seemed to flare up at odd times, almost like a small animal darting in and out of its hidey-hole, occasionally showing itself, but always lurking.   
Aziraphale skirted a few steps closer, adorably flustered and looking everywhere but at Crowley.  
"Ah, yes, hello..." he began, smiling sheepishly at the ground. "I was just... wondering. Or, well, no, what I meant was that, I'm not sure if you're aware or not, but the annual church market day will be taking place this Sunday next week.   
Crowley continued to peer over the edge of his glasses.  
"Yes..?" he drawled slowly, leisurely ruffling his hair.  
"Oh, you do know! Aziraphale exclaimed hurriedly. "Jolly good. I just... thought I would make sure you weren't caught unawares by the ballyhoo." He nodded to himself, lips pressed together and fingers twiddling worse than before, his eyes still carefully averted from Crowley.  
"'Nathema mentioned it," Crowley said casually, folding his arms behind his head. "Would you like to sit?"  
Aziraphale looked around with a small frown, finding no other chairs in the yard. Before he could ask, Crowley let his legs flop down on either side of the sunbed, freeing up the foot end. The blond looked adorably unsure as he primly plopped himself down on the sunbed, as far away from Crowley as possible.   
"I, uh, I wanted to ask... Obviously the market has stalls... Or it wouldn't really be a market, would it?" he stuttered nervously. "Will you be setting up a stall?"  
Crowley folded his arms under his head and wrinkled his nose.  
"Nah. Don't think so."  
"Oh. Well, it was just, if you were..." Aziraphale said slowly. "There's a fee to set up a stall. And the money goes to St Dwynwen, the roof, you know, as you probably guessed, that's why it's called a church market day..."  
"'Nathema mentioned that too," Crowley drawled leisurely, squirming a little - to get comfortable, of course. Definitely not to watch the flush in Aziraphale's cheeks flare up.  
"Yes, uh, jolly good..." Aziraphale said, wringing his hands and pointedly snapping his head away from Crowley. "Is, uh... is that why you're not setting up a stall?" he asked in a brave attempt at casualty.   
Crowley snorted softly.  
"I'm entitled to whatever I decide to do," he said calmly, folding one leg up under his body.  
"Oh! Of course, of course," Aziraphale said hurriedly. He pursed his lips, shooting Crowley a look through the corner of his eye. "Well, uhm... Maybe if you're very... stalwart in 'not doing churches'... I mean, it's the parish council who organise it, of course and, well... I suppose I could pull a few strings, if you liked... Maybe see if you we could make an exception, with the fee... Perhaps let you off the hook, so to speak," he stammered.  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"That's... uh. That's an interesting offer," he said, surprised. "But nah... I'd be stuck there all day, with Morris dancers and whatnot..."  
Aziraphale looked crestfallen.  
"The Morris dancers won't be coming this year," he said, practically deflating before Crowley's eyes. "The chief is getting a new hip and two of the others are going to the Canary Islands with their wives on a cruise they won..."   
Crowley could almost feel bad for the blond as he sagged with disappointment, just talking about it.  
Crowley pouted sympathetically.  
"Yeah, well... Still not setting up a stall," he said. "Wanna be able to leave when I've had enough... But maybe I should stock up the box."  
Aziraphale beamed.  
"Yes! You should definitely do that! Maybe move it to the village green." he said excitedly. He shot Crowley another look and Crowley decided to reward him by arching his back a little. "Won't you burn to a crisp out here?" Aziraphale asked, a little flustered. "Awfully sunny out here and... well, you're ginger."  
"I've made it this far," Crowley shrugged, gesturing down his tan, sinewy form.   
"Oh!" Aziraphale dared a proper, long peek. "I thought you perhaps... painted it on, or however you say..."  
Crowley sniffed.  
"Nah. Homemade, this," he shrugged. "You want a drink?" he asked, gesturing lazily towards the house. "Anathema dumped something like a gallon of lemonade on me yesterday and I don't know how the Hell I'm ever meant to get through it all. Like, proper lemon-lemonade. Not Sprite."  
"Oh, I wouldn't want to disturb you," Aziraphale said quickly, despite looking not at all uninterested. "You were clearly... in the middle of something," he finished with a vague gesture over Crowley's body.  
Crowley waved him off.  
"Nah, s'no bother. Just sit down and I'll be right back."  
Aziraphale hemmed and hawed.  
"Well, if it's no trouble, then why not?" he said, not sounding nearly as hesitant as he probably thought he did. "Oh, but... might I suggest... some outerwear, perhaps?" he added shyly.  
Crowley smirked.  
"I'm wearing shorts, he said.  
Aziraphale huffed.  
"Yes, but perhaps a shirt and trousers would be good, if purely to humour me," he said, slightly flusteredly.  
Crowley stuck a thumb into the waist of his shorts.  
"These are trousers. Technically. Short ones..." he protested. "These," He pulled out the elastic of his slips. "are my undies."  
Aziraphale stared, then blinked and looked away.  
"Alright, you've convinced me..." he muttered, pursing his lips. "Although I don't think I've seen a grown man in shorts that short since '87..."  
Crowley snickered and was about to swagger off to get that lemonade when another voice rang out;  
"Father Fell. I must say I'm surprised to find you here."  
Crowley slowly turned, exchanging a look with Aziraphale who looked like he was considering taking some sort of offence to the statement.  
"Mr Taylor. Can't say the same for you," Crowley said with a dry undertone. Since the cable net meeting, Arpee had apparently decided to launch a thorough investigation into whether or not Crowley could be trusted, and thusly had kept him under stricter observation than prior, frequently swinging by to lecture Crowley on his parking, his driving, how much space the self-serve station took up on the pavement and the village homeowner's composting policy, the latter of which Crowley was still unconvinced even existed. "Was there something you wanted?  
"I would like to point out that not everyone takes kindly to their neighbours lounging about in their underwear in full view." Arpee snipped. "We have certain standards for how we conduct ourselves in public in this village."  
"Mr Crowley was just on his way to put on a shirt before getting himself a sunburn," Aziraphale said stiffly.  
"Just as well!" Arpee snipped, eyes nearly bulging out. "What would it come to if we all ran about half-naked?"   
Under his breath Crowley muttered something that to Aziraphale's ears sounded a lot like 'an orgy, probably'.   
"And I must say that someone ought to raise a point with the parish council about the sort of company our priest keeps!" Arpee yammered on, abruptly yanking Aziraphale out of shooting Crowley a look.  
"Just trying to talk a little bit of God into him and little shamelessness out of him," Aziraphale said, clasping his hands in his lap, lips pressed together in a tight smile, biting back any sort of uncharitable comment that he may or may not have felt sorely tempted to make in that moment.  
Arpee scoffed.  
"Better do it fast. We can't have people swanning about dressed like this is one of those degenerate beach nightclubs full of drugs and young people getting up to who-knows-what," he sneered before marching off.  
Crowley and Aziraphale looked after him and he stalked along, dachshund scurrying along the best it knew how.   
"Has anyone actually complained about my sunbathing, do you think, or was he just making that up as he went along?" Crowley finally asked.  
Aziraphale hummed.  
"The latter is certainly an option," he admitted.  
"Unless sergeant Whatever's been wagging his mouth," Crowley considered, nodding at the house across the street.  
Aziraphale waved a hand.  
"Oh, hardly, he and Arpee aren't exactly on speaking terms," he said.  
Crowley shot the semi-detached across the road a look.  
"Is it the front garden?" he asked slowly.  
"You're starting to figure out how things work around here," Aziraphale said graciously.  
Crowley snorted.  
"What's the sergeant make of Arpee?"  
Aziraphale sighed.  
"He's concocted a theory that Arpee is so fussed about the front yard as a means to wasting the sergeant's time and keeping him from important work such as keeping the dark forces at bay..."  
"He's constantly out and about, doing other people's gardens?? And I didn't get the impression that Arpee and 'Nathema were pals either?"  
"I'm still trying to figure out the logic, truth be told..." Aziraphale said, frowning to himself.   
Crowley shook his head.  
"Marjie, Marjie, Marjie, what are you doing, old girl?" he groaned.   
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.   
"Lord only knows."  
"And he ain't telling," Crowley groused. He shook himself out and got up. "Did you want lemonade?"  
"By all means, if the offer's still good!"   
_Angel, if you showed up at three in the morning, in January, the offer would still be good._  
  
Aziraphale had often passed what was now Crowley's cottage, before it came into its current ownership, and keenly remembered being quite surprised - bordering on shocked, really - when the painters had come in one day and started doing the place up in a warm dusty red. However, he did have to admit it looked rather good as the house sat in the sun of the late summer afternoon, warm and almost glowing.  
He got up and trailed after Crowley, as the redhead gestured for hi to follow, looking left and right, at the large greenhouse, built against the end of the cottage, the smooth concrete that covered the drive-way and most of the small garden, which had been turned into a large patio, with Crowley's little set-up, consisting of a sunbed, a table and a folded-down sun umbrella, sat in the middle. Along the edges were several brimming planters, - made of more concrete - a birdbath - concrete - and by the door sat a bench - cast iron painted glossy black, not concrete. Aziraphale seemed to recall that it had been left there when the previous owner of the cottage moved out. Behind the bench there was a climbing rose that looked too at-home to have been a newly planted thing, but would have had to be, really, wot with the paint job and everything. With one last fond look at the fat white flowers, Aziraphale followed Crowley inside and froze. For a second he stared at the room in front of him, then he took a step back and looked at the cottage from outside. Yep, it was still there, all of it, the climbing rose, the brimming planters and the elegant wooden sunbed, the freshly thatched roof.   
Aziraphale stepped back inside, did a second take on the open plan interior of the cottage; The floor was concrete and by the looks of it, what few walls had been spared were coated with that same material. The few and far between pieces of furniture - a single sofa and coffee table in front of a huge wall-mounted screen in the slightly lowered TV den, a four-chair dining suite and two scarcely populated bookshelves - were all shiny and black and rather uncomfortable looking, especially the sofa. Straight across from the front door, at the end of what must once have a corridor with doors on either side, until someone took a sledgehammer to all the walls, was a kitchen, counters as black and shiny as the everything else, with an almost menacing-looking coffee machine throning off to one side and an oddly out-of-place retro fridge to the other. The kitchen island had two high chairs parked at one end and a copper coloured tap sticking up at the other. Behind the sofa sat a globe bar and on the bared wooden beams supporting the ceiling a few plants were mounted, spilling over the edges of their pots. On the back of the snippet of wall, that held up the TV, hang what looked like to be a lithography of a sketch of the Mona Lisa.  
The entirety of the inside of Crowley's home looked every bit as much like a life style magazine cover as the outside - only starkly opposite. Aziraphale ended up doing one more double-take, sticking his head outside and looking back in, before he felt entirely sure he had not wandered through some sort of portal to another dimension. As he walked back in for the third time, he found Crowley by the island counter, watching him, with a brow raised. Aziraphale realised he must have looked like an idiot, flittering back and forth with confusion painted on his face, and felt his cheeks grow warm. He straightened his back and sniffed.  
"Interesting choices..." he said primly, pursing his lips. "Would you like me to take my shoes off?" he then offered.   
Crowley waved him off, pulling a glass out of a cupboard.  
"Nah, don't worry about that, the robot needs feeding anyway."  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"The - the what needs feeding?"  
Crowley pointed to the corner absolutely furthest from the front door. When Aziraphale snuck over, he saw a flat disc sat in a holder of sorts, a green light flickering on and off.   
"Oh! One of those!"  
"Yeah. It doesn't say much, but it's someone to come home to, y'know?" Crowley snarked. "Bloody easy life, that is. I just drag my dirty shoes all over the house and that one comes creeping around when I'm out and gets rid of it all."  
Aziraphale was about to point out that hoovering Crowley's mostly bare floor would hardly be a demanding task, but decided against it. One more look around the cottage from this new angle told him that if a silly gadget existed for anything, Crowley probably owned it. The TV was not only massive, but had a slight curve to it. Below it sat a sleek entertainment unit which presumably communicated with the equally sleek speakers mounted in the corners, just below the ceiling, around the room.  
"I'm gonna slip into something dry real quick," Crowley said. "Try not to miss me."  
Definitely not blushing and humming to himself, Aziraphale continued to make his rounds in the room, taking in the dark, rustic-looking wooden floor between the kitchen counters and the smell of some kind of apple scented cleaning agent. He kept looking around as Crowley returned from wherever and began fluttering about in the kitchen and eventually stuck a glass of lemonade in Aziraphale's hand as he was too busy perusing the, clearly, carefully curated bookshelf. The few select books mainly spoke about art and astronomy, although there was one or two about plants too.  
"An interesting selection," Aziraphale noted as Crowley sidled up to him, now dressed in a dry pair of short and a t-shirt, dark glasses gone.  
"Yeah. Lots of nice pictures," Crowley said, sipping his own lemonade. "Outer space photographs nicely."  
Aziraphale hummed.   
"That's true." He sipped his lemonade and wandered over to gently prod at a plant. Its leaves folded up under his finger. He could not hold back a squeal. "Oh! One of those! Oh no, don't they die when yo touch them??" he asked, horrified.  
Crowley chuckled.  
"Nah, that's Venus flytraps you're thinking of. Mimosas unfold again eventually," he said, slinking closer to Aziraphale, a glass of lemonade of his own in hand.   
"Oh. Oh, good. Would've been awkward, coming into your house like this and maiming one of your potted plants!" Aziraphale tittered.   
Crowley snorted.   
"Don't you worry about that," he said with an elegant shrug.  
"Any interesting plans for dinner?" Aziraphale asked, nodding at the bowl of tomatoes that sat on the kitchen counter in the corner by the fridge.   
"You mean company or food?" Crowley asked innocently.   
Aziraphale swallowed hard and turned adorably pink.   
"Food," he retorted shortly. "All those scrummy-looking tomatoes..."  
Crowley made a noise.   
"I have chicken nuggets in the freezer," he shrugged.  
Aziraphale tutted, forgetting all about being flushed.   
"Do you never eat proper grown-up food?" he asked exasperatedly.   
"Not if I don't have to," Crowley said disinterestedly, sipping his lemonade.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.   
"Be a shame to let these go to waste, though," he said, wistfully eying the tomatoes. "They look lovely."  
"I just had to get them off the plants before they fell off and started rotting on the ground," Crowley said with a shrug. "Help yourself to as many as you like."  
"You won't be needing them?" Aziraphale asked in shock as he pilfered a tomato and popped it in his mouth and humming happily. "They really are delicious!"  
"I just keep 'em in the greenhouse to make it smell right."  
"Try one!" Aziraphale urged, holding out the bowl.  
Crowley groaned.  
"They make my mouth feel weird," he said. "Like I said, I just keep them to make the greenhouse smell like greenhouse."  
"They do smell nice," Aziraphale admitted, nearly planting his face in the bowl like a stupid, but cute puppy, in order to sniff the small red fruits. "How about tomato sauce? Does that burn your mouth too?"  
"Nah, pasta sauce is fine," Crowley said.   
"I have a nice, easy recipe that I use sometimes," Aziraphale pondered. "Would it perhaps be useful if I taught you? You know," he quickly clarified. "with all those tomatoes in your greenhouse and such..."  
Crowley cocked his head. Another cooking lesson with Aziraphale? Another round of bickering and nudging each other in the ribs and watching Aziraphale tug into his dinner like it was the highlight of his day?  
"Eh, yeah, pfft, sure. If you've got nothing else on for the afternoon, why the Hell not?" he said, trying to cram the hand not holding his glass of lemonade into the pocket of his shorts - and taking four tries before remembering that his shorts did, in fact, not have pockets. Instead he hooked his thumb into the waistband.   
Aziraphale definitely stared as the elastic band dropped slightly. And maybe Crowley rested his hand a little heavier, to pull it down a little further, but whatever.   
"My, ahem, my duties for the day are all done," Aziraphale said before taking a large gulp of his lemonade. "I have nowhere particular I need to be..."  
"A'ight." Crowley swaggered back to the kitchen and hopped onto the island counter. "Show me the sauce."

Dinner had been made. Crowley had at one point had to nip down to the shop to grab a bag a pasta screws, earning himself a hearty scowl as he jumped through the door roughly 30 seconds before the lady owner had meant to close up - and earning himself a spot of praise for actually making it on time, when he returned to his cottage where Aziraphale had puttered around, having helped himself to another glass of lemonade and prodding some more at the potted mimosa, like he fucking _belonged_ in Crowley's home or something. Now, a large pot of tomato sauce, spruced up with a tuft or two of pretty much every herb that Crowley did not recall planting in his greenhouse - deep thanks to the gardener he had hired, he supposed - and a few left-over pastas were sitting on the stove, slowly cooling, while two dirty sets of plates and cutlery sat in the sink.  
"Another glass of wine?" Crowley offered as Aziraphale drifted towards the sofa, empty wine glass in hand.   
"I feel like the red has been working perfectly well," Aziraphale said. "Be a shame to say goodbye so soon."  
Crowley grabbed the open bottle from the dining table and followed along, pouring Aziraphale's glass.  
"Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing at the sofa.  
Aziraphale eyed it suspiciously. It looked more like a piece of architecture than furniture. He delicately placed himself on it and tried to scoot further into the seat to lean against the backrest. It was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked.   
"This sofa is terrible!" he whined shifting about trying to get comfortable and failing.   
Crowley swaggered back from the kitchen island with the wine bottle now open and filled their glasses.  
"Oh?" He plopped down and arranged himself as he always did, sort of draped over one arm of the sofa. "I never really noticed," he said with a shrug.  
"Do you never sit on it"? Aziraphale asked incredulously, irritatedly sipping his wine.   
"Of course I do?" Crowley scoffed, gesturing down his own body.   
Aziraphale scowled.  
"Forget that I asked, I forgot who I was talking to," he scoffed and sipped his wine. He sent Crowley another stern glare as the redhead practically melted over the sofa like one of Dali's clocks. "Do you even have a spine?" he asked exasperatedly.  
Crowley shrugged, nearly bent in half, backwards, over the arm rest.  
"I must've... Most things do, don't they? Except jellyfish... Are you calling me a jellyfish?!" he finished affrontedly.  
Aziraphale snorted against the rim of his glass and shook his head with a smirk.   
"It would be an affront to jellyfish," he muttered loud enough for Crowley to clearly hear it.  
Crowley straightened.  
"Oi!"   
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air and looked around some more. He tried to peer at the neatly arranged CDs under the entertainment unit. Bloody small fonts...  
"You wanna listen to something?" Crowley asked, following his gaze.   
Aziraphale sincerely doubted that this hyper-designed concrete Hell was going supply anything he would want to listen to.   
"Depends what you have," he offered carefully.   
"Hmm... I've got..." Crowley sauntered over and stuck his arse in the air in a way that make Aziraphale briefly squirm in his seat. "Ehm, Sex Pistols - probably not. Velvet Underground - "  
"What's a 'Velvet Underground'??" Aziraphale asked.  
"You wouldn't like it," Crowley said over his shoulder, or more correctly, around the corner of his backside.   
"Oh. Bebop," Aziraphale said nodding. "No, you're quite right, let's leave well enough alone."  
Crowley made a noise like he wanted to say something but gave up.   
"I have Men... Mendo... That guy, y'know?"  
Aziraphale straightened and lowered his glass from his lips.  
"Mendelsohn??" he asked with surprise.   
"Yeahp. That guy, like I said. Some Mozart as well, but that's a bit of a cheap shot, don't you think?"   
"Well..! Mendelssohn sounds lovely!" Aziraphale said.   
Crowley hummed and nodded, pulling out a CD and slipping it into the player.  
"CD's are a bit lame, I know, but searching for all those names online to make playlists is just... bleh. Takes too bloody long to type all that out in that little search bar," he explained as he returned to his seat and produced a remote seemingly out of nowhere to press play and lower the volume to enable conversation. "I had an Alexa, for a bit... but it made drunk online shopping way too easy, so had to get rid of it. Got ridiculous really. Bloody thing was just sat in my closet, switched off."  
"You like classical music?" Aziraphale inquired curiously, opting to pretend he had just a remote inkling what Crowley had just talked about.  
"All music becomes classical eventually," Crowley said philosophically, dropping back onto the sofa.   
"Same goes for art, I suppose," Aziraphale continued, eyeing what looked to be a miniature replica of "The Wrestlers" which sat on a plinth in one corner, with a little spotlight on it. "Which you appear to have opinions on as well."   
Crowley hummed.  
"Yeah. I like stuff that doesn't require reading, y'know? Even took some classical art courses at the UAL, years ago."  
Aziraphale desperately tried to get some sort of comfortable on the sofa and nodded.   
"That sounds... enriching," he offered, still squirming in his seat. "But pricy, perhaps?"  
Crowley snorted.   
"Yeah, well..." He looked away, scrubbed a finger at his brow. "'Member when I said I used to be on the game?"  
Aziraphale nodded again.  
"Ah. Yes. I do."  
"So, I fell off that pole and all and bumped my hip. Had to make rent somehow, so... there's always the nearest street corner, y'know? But honestly, for the amount of trouble my hip gave me, the pay was shite. So I was taking a day off to try and rest and snuck into Sotheby's, to look at all the expensive stuff I was gonna buy some day when I was done turning tricks... Ended up next to a lady in a pearl necklace worth more than my monthly rent. We got to talking and I guess she thought I was a funny little sod, with all my naïve ideas about art and whatnot... So she invited me out to grab a bite to eat and then... You can probably guess what, can't you, you're a smart chap," he grinned.   
Aziraphale made a noise.   
"Indeed, indeed." He forewent pointing out that it seemed a bit like that woman had taken advantage. Crowley seemed mighty chuffed about it all, so perhaps Aziraphale just being squeamish. The lady might have been perfectly nice...  
"Yeah, so, anyway, crazy lady coughed up _big,_ " Crowley continued, snapping Aziraphale out of his thoughts. "and asked if I would fancy going to another auction with her sometime and we sort of got into a pattern. She always paid through her nose like it was nothing, and she took me to museums and galleries... Even started buying me stuff at auctions that I liked. She'd split from her filthy rich husband, 'cos he'd been at it with the maid or something, and she had _fleeced_ the guy. I think she was honestly just having a blast, spending his dosh with my firm, young arse hanging on her arm. And then I guess she mentioned me to some of her friends, so they started... inviting me out as well." He smirked into his wine and took a sip. "And then a few of their husbands started turning up too."  
"So you... played it up as a luxury escort for bored society folks to pay your way through art school?" Aziraphale asked.   
"Oh nono, I had plenty of things to spend my own money on," Crowley said, wagging a finger. "I had to stay pretty for the paying customers, didn't I? Nah, I got _them_ to pay my way through art school. They were all happy to dole out so I figured I might as well start slipping them the bills."   
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Whatever it takes, I suppose," he said with a shrug and taking a large sip of wine.  
Crowley hummed and drained his glass.   
"I wasn't that great at it," he admitted tersely. "The arts. But I loved it there. Met some people, proper artsy types. Did some modeling for them."  
"'Modeling'," Aziraphale echoed sardonically, topping up his wine.   
"Yeah, yeah, proper modeling, no grubby stuff," Crowley said earnestly. "Watch this!" He stuck his empty glass into Aziraphale's hand, got up and sauntered over to a shelf and pulled out a large book. On the way back to the sofa he thumbed through it and presented a page to Aziraphale. "See. That's me there!"  
The page showed a single painting, mostly bold brush strokes in bright colours obscuring a sketch of a slender male figure standing in classic contrapposto, back turned towards the viewer. Aziraphale's eyes got tragically stuck on the perky arse on the canvas, partially hidden by a broad stripe of sunny yellow.   
"Oh! Oh, goodness, that's - you're in actual, proper art!" he said, honestly impressed, after tearing his eyes down to the fine print below the image, which gave away the name of the artist, the title and dimensions. It also mentioned the absolutely outrageous price for which the painting had been sold.   
Crowley laughed.   
"Yeah! Told ya! No grubby stuff." he said, snapping the book shut and ditching it on the coffee table. "Imagine that," he snickered. "Someone's paid more for a drawing of my arse than my actual arse ever cost!"  
Aziraphale laughed along.  
"She was right, Marjie," Crowley noted, slowly stopping his laughter. "You are a lot different from what I expected."   
Aziraphale stopped laughing as well and swallowed. Crowley's voice had gone oddly soft.   
"Yes, well..." Aziraphale shifted nervously. And uncomfortably in a purely physical sense. "Judging gets you nowhere with people... It's the Lords privilege, not ours. I'm just trying to get people's souls through the eye of the needle, I guess."  
Crowley frowned.   
"Is that why you stopped by today?" he asked huskily. "To save my soul?"   
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"I have enough on my plate as it is. The most you can hope for is staining it all in Merlot so the dirty spots don't show as much."  
Crowley laughed at that. He raised his glass.  
"Guess I better drink to that, then," he said.  
Aziraphale clinked their glasses together.  
"If you insist."

It had been a lovely couple of hours, really. Mendelssohn had long-since stopped playing, the first bottle was long since emptied, a second one had been opened, and Aziraphale had completely forgotten how awful the sofa was for sitting in. He had even shoved his bowtie in his pocket and undone a button as the room started to feel a bit too warm. At one point Crowley had told him the full story of what had happened when he fell and hurt his hip, and as awful as it all had been, the way Crowley told the story of going to the A&E, inebriated and in his 'work clothes', had left Aziraphale laugh-crying half a bucket listening to it, while Crowley had ended up nearly wobbling off the sofa, wrecked with laughter, at which point Aziraphale had caught him, still dissolved in giggles. From that point he had hauled Crowley back onto the sofa and they had somehow ended up chest-to-chest with Crowley on top, his head resting against Aziraphale's sternum, silence stretching companionably between them as their last chuckles died out. It should perhaps have set alarm bells off in Aziraphale's mind, and perhaps it did, but he was just too drunk to care. Crowley felt warm and solid and Aziraphale was beginning to wonder if there was any feasible way he could grift his way into a hug. He could use a hug right about now, he felt...  
"D'you know why there aren't any unicorns left?" Crowley suddenly asked, voice slurred.   
Aziraphale frowned.  
"... s'it 'cos they never 'xisted in the first place?" he tried incredulously.   
"Nono, y'know Noah, yeah?" Crowley said, hoisting himself up Aziraphale's front. "He had to put all 'em animals in the Ark by himself 'n all. But you're supposed to catch unicorns wi' virgins, aren't ya? 'Cos they're _really_ picky I guess..."   
Aziraphale sputtered out a laugh of disbelief. Crowley continued, unfazed, a very drunkenly serious look on his face.   
"But i's Noah an' his missus and their boys 'n their wives too, yeah? No' a bloody virgin in sight. So tha's that. No unicorns... If bloody Shem or whoever could've just... not, y'know? But now we've got no unicorns..." he finished with a disappointed pout.   
"Fine by me," Aziraphale said with a shrug. "I w's almost kicked in th'head by a pony once... Dun need to be stabbed by one."  
"No' great for transp'rtation either!" Crowley agreed. "Hard on th' buttocks..."   
"How peopl' got an'thin' done like that..." Aziraphale said with horror. "In the ol' days..."  
Crowley nodded, flopping down on Aziraphale's chest again.  
Aziraphale was too far left of tipsy to really notice as his fingers absentmindedly dug into Crowley's mop of copper hair.  
"When'd you go horse bahr - horse blah - riding?" he babbled.  
"Eh, some - hic - some bloke invited me t' his 'house in country'," Crowley said in a posh accent, wiggling his head lazily against Aziraphale's gently scratching fingers. "'N then 'e like... jus' stuck me on a horse, 'cos i's meant'ah be romantic or summat... I though' it wus bollocks," he finished, still canting his head against Aziraphale's hand. "Why're you so good a' tha'?" he asked, eyes fluttering shut.  
"'Cos I don't bite m'nails," Aziraphale said, scratching Crowley with one hand and raising his wine glass with the other.   
"Th'say y'should eat 'varied'," Crowley slurred, mouth pushed slightly open from the way he was now mushing his face against Aziraphale's chest, his body gone completely limp. "S'I gotta eat summat other th'n ciggy butts."  
Aziraphale snorted and put down his now empty glass. He wrapped his free arm around Crowley's back and sighed contentedly.   
"Y'gotta look after y'self," he said. "Eat better food an' such."  
"Come 'round for dinner more often, 'n I will," Crowley negotiated. He felt Aziraphale swallow hard.  
"P'ple are gunna talk. Arpee's already makin' comments..." he said waveringly.  
"Ach, s'just 'cos he d'sn't like me," Crowley sniffed with a dismissive wave.  
"He d'sn't r'lly like anyone..." Aziraphale noted, with a quirk of his lip, still scratching Crowley's scalp.   
Crowley purred and nuzzled against Aziraphale's undone top button.   
"'M lapsed! Yer a priest! Y've plenny o' reas'ns if y' wanna," he argued.   
Aziraphale hummed unsurely.  
"Not tryin' t'save your soul, though, ammi?" he asked.   
Crowley made one of his many noises.   
"No, you were tryin' t' stain it burgundy," he snickered. His hand crept up to brush lightly against Aziraphale's cheek. "Preferable treatment if you ask me," he muttered, thumb lightly stroking the line running from the corner of Aziraphale's mouth.   
Aziraphale just sat there, staring. If he had been sober enough, he might have likened it to watching an avalanche come rolling towards you, lightening fast and endlessly slow at the same time, ceaselessly moving to swallow you up. But he was drunk. So he just watched Crowley's face come nearer and nearer until their lips brushed and pliantly let himself be dragged under.  
At least for a moment. Then the kiss broke and Aziraphale's brain fought its way to the surface of a wine red sea, sputtering and drunkenly horrified.  
"What - "  
Crowley hummed out a chuckle.  
"'Think y'know," he said softly.   
Aziraphale kept staring, his breath picking up slightly.  
"No. No, I don't," he tried, his voice going up a notch. "I wouldn't..! I'm not -! I have standards!"  
"Why not?" Crowley asked sneakily.  
"Th'Lord sees all..." Aziraphale protested.   
"But does 'e tell?" Crowley asked, his lips nearly brushing Aziraphale's, their winy breaths mingling.   
Aziraphale turned his head.  
"All th' same!" he said heatedly. "'M not meant to - I can't believe you'd sugges' such thing!" He got up from the sofa, pushing Crowley off him. "'M goin' home!" he announced.   
Crowley just sat there, stupidly, his drunk brain scrambling to catch up while Aziraphale collected himself and left with a brief and halfhearted 'G'night', closing the front door rather firmly behind himself.  
What the Hell had just happened? One second he was enjoying the snog he had dreamt of for months and then...  
Crowley looked at the inside of the front door like it might hold some answers, but of nothing revealed itself. He got up shaking his head. A nagging feeling in his stomach reared its head but inebriated as he was he dismissed it as too much liquid and not enough solids. He ate a slice of plain bread and then went to bed, his nose full of the scent of Aziraphale's cologne.


	18. Chapter 18

_Monday 26th June_

The next morning Crowley woke up, hungover, both physically, and after a minute of groaning and wondering why he was feeling so bothered, also morally. He had upset Aziraphale. Or Aziraphale had been upset, at least, and left, and there was a risk that Crowley was involved in it. He tried to remember what had happened, while he practically drank a mouthful of paracetamols straight from the jar in the shelf in the kitchen cabinet that held all the ingestible odds and ends of the house.   
He had thought he had been pretty smooth. Aziraphale had been happy to snuggle on the sofa after a long afternoon and evening of hanging out and having fun, had gotten himself proper comfy there. Had been all soft and cuddly and irresistible and then sort of out of nowhere they had been kissing and it had been brilliant and Crowley had wanted another round... and then Aziraphale had fled. Flat-out fled.   
Crowley groaned and slumped against the counter. Oh, that's what had happened. He had pushed his luck and come on too strong. Well. This was shit. He would have to talk to Aziraphale.   
_Hi, sorry that I got a little demanding there_.   
Great. Splendid. That conversation was going to be _riveting_...

Aziraphale staggered into the office building, mug of hot cocoa in hand. His head felt like it was three times it's usual size and when he had looked in the mirror that morning... He had had less than no desire to linger on that particular view, put it like that.  
Deidre looked up from where she was already seated at her desk, her expression starting out as a cheerful, with that teasing glint she always had when Aziraphale came in late, and quickly turning concerned.  
"Good morning - What in the World's happened to you?"  
Aziraphale groaned and slumped into his desk chair.   
"Nothing one can die of... Or so I'm told," he mumbled, wondering if his voice always worked in such a high pitch.  
"You look like Arthur after his cousin Malcom's 40th birthday last year!" Deidre said, surely much louder than she had any reason to. But then again, the shower had also seemed awfully shouty that morning. And the electric kettle needed a bloody muffler, that was for damn sure. Aziraphale had nearly burst an eardrum when it had clicked off...  
"I resent that," Aziraphale groused. "He was unfit to drive for three days after that debacle!"  
Deidre made a small noise, still watching Aziraphale closely and paying his words no mind at all. It was rather unnerving.   
"So... how are things today?" Aziraphale continued, squirming under the scrutiny.  
"Things are fine..." Deidre said disinterestedly. "Are you?" she continued intently.   
"I'm hung over," Aziraphale said evasively. "Surely you've tried that at some point in your time..." He took a deep swig of his cocoa. He had mixed it the exact same was he always did, but it seemed sickeningly sweet at this moment. He forced himself to swallow and grimaced.   
"Why hung over?" Deidre asked.  
It took Aziraphale a moment to realise she was asking why he had been drinking.   
_Oh, bother...  
_ He considered his options. He could just say he had had a few too many on his own, although the sort of intake required to leave him in his current state was perhaps what one would call 'a worrying amount' for a fellow to drink on his own... Or he could tell the truth, that he had had a winy dinner with Crowley...   
Neither were great options... But ultimately he decided that Deidre deserved to have her mind put to rest.  
"I persuaded Crowley to eat proper food for dinner... He retaliated with a very convincing red," he admitted. "And so I reap what I sow..."  
 _Or what Crowley had sowed..?  
_ "Oh." It was _highly_ irritating how Deidre visibly relaxed and a smile crept into the corner of her mouth, now that it was clear that Aziraphale had in fact _not_ been drinking himself paraplegic all on his lonesome, as if there had been a real risk that that was what had happened. "Oh, well." Now she _giggled_! The sound was torturous. "These things happen, I suppose. Goodness knows I've been on the side of tipsy once or twice after a book club meeting with the girls."  
Aziraphale groaned.   
"Just too bad I'm too much of an idiot to do it on a day where I _won't_ have to be at the home at ten the following morning..!" he sulked.   
Deidre tutted sympathetically.   
"Is there anything I can get you? Frozen peas or a hot water bottle?" she offered.   
"Perhaps if you could fine me my sense of moderation, I seem to have misplaced it," Aziraphale quipped humorlessly, hunched over his desk, face buried in his hands.  
"Maybe you should pop back over to your own place," Deidre suggested. "See if you can grab another forty winks before you have to go..."  
Aziraphale straightened with a monumental effort and shook his head.  
"If I'm old enough to get tight on a Sunday, I'm old enough to suffer the consequences and come to work on Monday," he said firmly.   
"Did you at least take an aspirin?" Deidre kept pushing.  
"I'll be quite fine, dear, stop fussing now," Aziraphale chided gently. "This is entirely my own fault. Just do you job and let me mother myself."   
Deidre smirked warmly and started up her computer, leaving Aziraphale to have a long hard think on his life choices as he patted off to the kitchenette and poured his cocoa down the sink, instead helping himself to very large glass of water.

Apart from being hung-over to high Heaven, Crowley also broke his own absentmindedness record that morning, peaking when he simply _forgot_ to put a mug under the tap of his capsule brewer and started the damn thing, making a mess all over the floor.  
He knew Aziraphale would be at the old folks' home all morning. The wait was absolutely intolerable! Crowley really desperately needed to talk to the Angel before everything went completely to shit and Aziraphale thought... whatever he thought.   
Crowley bounced off the walls of the shop all morning, thankfully not having too many customers, drinking more and more coffee and having far more smoking breaks than any one person needed, all the while dreaming up one perfect, short but well-put apology after the other and promptly forgetting them again, only to come up with a new one.  
 _Finally_ , at a snail's pace, time decided to get a move on, and well past what a normal person would call 'lunch time', Crowley hopped into the Bentley and drove towards the rectory. He had been debating what time exactly he wanted to show up for the past hour, weighing his options pro and con, that Aziraphale would have to be back from the home, but that Aziraphale might also send him away with the excuse that he had to work and that Crowley should not bother him with private stuff during office hours.   
As Crowley pushed the door to the office open and peeked in, Deidre walked back in from the small kitchenette with a cup of coffee in her hand.   
"Crowley! Hello! Uh... Can I help you?"   
Crowley scanned the room. No Aziraphale.  
"Uh, puh, nah. 'S'jus'... looking for the boss dude?" Crowley said, as casually as humanly possible with his stomach lodged somewhere in his pelvis, nodding at Aziraphale's empty desk chair.   
"It's Monday," Deidre said. "He's at the old folk ho -"  
"I'd've thought he'd be back by now, s'all," Crowley interrupted her without really meaning to, but unable to help himself. "I'll just, uh... be back later."  
"Are you alright?" Deidre asked as Crowley was about to leave.  
"Wha'? Oh, yeh yeh, I'm good, I'm fine, all is... peachy," Crowley muttered distractedly, shuffling his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets.   
Deidre set her coffee down.  
"Would you... like to talk about how fine things are..?" she offered. "Or do you need an actual priest for it?"  
 _No, I do_ not _want to talk about this. No, I most_ emphatically _do not need a priest, not now, not ever. Not for_ that _anyway._   
"Nah nah, s'fine. Nothing important," Crowley smiled strainedly. "Isn't he, uh... out a bit late?" he asked, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. "I mean... Isn't he normally back just after lunch time?"   
"Sometimes things come up," Deidre said mildly. "But, you know, you don't have to come in during office hours. Whenever's fine... Especially if it's you."  
Crowley had absolutely no idea what to do with that statement at this point in time. Even if it had been true, it had probably been revised recently. But if it had been true...   
"Eh, neh, nah, s'fine, dun wanna bother him... off the clock..." he said, rubbing his tongue against the point of a canine.   
Deidre smirked.  
"Looked to me like you had him plenty bothered last night," she noted mirthfully. "He looked like something the cat had dragged in when he turned up this morning."  
Crowley snorted joylessly.   
_Oh, Moneypenny, you've no idea...  
_ "Yeah. Yeah, thing's got a bit... So much for grown-up adults, eh?" he laughed hollowly. "But, ehh, if he's not in, I'll just -"

Perhaps this was really all Crowley had wanted all along, Aziraphale thought to himself as he headed back towards Lower Tadfield in his trusty old Nova. All those weeks of carefully prodding a little, then a little more, then backing off, leaving Aziraphale to chase him a little, if he wanted more of that... attention he had gotten used to. Cutting some slack and reeling in...   
And Aziraphale had let himself be reeled. Had flirted back, had... given in. Had given Crowley what he wanted. And then the redheaded menace had upped the ante yesterday, strutting about scantily clad, convincing Aziraphale to stay because he knew Aziraphale worried that Crowley needed more well-made, home-cooked food, because Aziraphale was one of those 'nice suckers' Crowley had talked about... And then he had gotten Aziraphale nice and tight and then...  
Then Crowley had kissed Aziraphale, as if kissing Aziraphale was a thing that someone like Crowley would be any sort of interested in, while Aziraphale had been too inebriated and skin-hungry to think to protest...  
Yes. That was what had happened. Had worked out neatly in Crowley's favour, had it not? Aziraphale had been... vulnerable in several ways and Crowley had... Crowley had put Aziraphale in a situation where it was easy to lure him into... misbehaving.   
Thoroughly underhanded, that. Unfair and rude and _highly_ dubious! Getting a priest drunk in order to..!   
By the time Aziraphale reached the rectory and saw the Bentley parked in the yard, he was fuming. Crowley was here, was he then? To gloat, presumably. Well. Aziraphale wished him the best of luck with that. He had a few choice words of his own that he would like say -!  
And then Crowley poked his head out of the office building, an odd, almost... worried little wrinkle between his brows and his body language tense. Not the least bit triumphant, not the slightest hint of gloating to be seen anywhere.   
Aziraphale swallowed. Despite being shielded behind the dark glasses, Crowley's eyes were very clearly glued to Aziraphale as he got out of his car. He felt his resolve slowly begin crumble as he crossed the yard, but clung to it with all his might, while a little voice muttered something about Crowley's words last night;  
_'Who would know?'  
_ But Aziraphale knew... Aziraphale had to live with this somehow... No amount of discretion on Crowley's part could change what had happened...   
Aziraphale took a deep, fortifying breath. He _hated_ lying, not just because it was very much a sin, but also because he was damned _bad_ at it..!  
_Lord forgive me, but I see no other way.  
_ And perhaps, if he was lucky, Crowley might find a way to not be too angry with him too... 

Crowley's stomach slowly curled up into a ball with a density as lead as Aziraphale parked his car and crossed the yard to the office building. This was going to be awful... Just the look of bone-deep panic on Aziraphale's face..! He was upset. Crowley had upset him.   
_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!  
_ Crowley could not tear his eyes off the blond as he came closer, jaw set and hands slowly creeping closer across his stomach. His adorably squishy stomach that Crowley had had such a brilliant time snuggling on... Before he had gotten greedy and pushed out of Aziraphale's comfort zone.   
"Hhhi..." he said awkwardly as Aziraphale walked into the office.   
Aziraphale sent him what could only be described as the ghost of his usual bright smile.   
"Good afternoon... Is something the matter?"   
_I think I might've been a right creep to you last night, in my wine bender...  
_ Crowley shot Deidre an unseen glance through the corner of his eyes.   
"Yeah... Uh... Could we... could we talk for a sec?"   
Deidre got half out of her chair.  
"Do you want me to go?" she asked.  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"N-no. No, no need for that, we'll just, uh... I could use a smoke," he said.  
Crowley nodded.   
"Yeah. Yeah, cool, yeah, smoke, I could go for a smoke," he said, running his tongue over the back of his teeth. He shuffled after Aziraphale outside, crossing to the rectory front steps. He lit a fag like his life depended on it and took a long drag. Sadly he was too pumped up on far too many ciggies already to feel any effect, but the routine was somewhat comforting.   
"So, uh..." he started. "Look, last night..."  
Aziraphale laughed shrilly.   
"Yes. That. All very... unfortunate," he said.  
Crowley blinked.  
'Unfortunate'... Beat 'deeply uncomfortable and vaguely traumatising', he supposed.   
"Uhm... Yeah, look, I was drunk -" he tried again.  
"We both were," Aziraphale said quickly.   
Crowley wished the blond would stop interrupting him while he was trying to _do a thing_..!  
"I just wanted to make sure that we're... cool," he said. "Things ended a bit awkwardly and I wanted to make sure you didn't feel -"  
"I feel absolutely nothing!" Aziraphale said with falsely chipper certainty.   
_... Oookay..._  
"We were drunk," Aziraphale continued. "Mistakes happen. It was hardly... malicious," he said, uncertainty burning a little in his throat. He wanted to think the best of Crowley, as he did of all people...   
"My _point_ was," Crowley said. "I mean..." He shrugged vexedly. "You didn't seem right when you left, so... sorry?" he offered awkwardly.   
Aziraphale felt some sort of knot untie itself deep inside him. Oh, that bloody redhead was going to be the death of him.   
"You were drunk," he said, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. "Sometimes mistakes are made under such circumstances." He dared a smile at Crowley. "Hardly malicious. Just... an incorrect conclusion drawn on your part. Nothing to it, frankly."  
Crowley looked like he would like to interrupt so Aziraphale quickly continued;  
"Nothing at all. You made a small, drunken mistake, which I in no way hold against you." He cleared his throat. "Surely you're not the first person to... pursue someone else while inebriated. No need to keep yammering on about it," he finished in a hushed voice.   
Crowley's brain had been in over-drive all day, spinning and spinning with no internal grip, but now it finally managed to kick into actual gear.   
He felt a stab of offense at those words. He _had_ jumped to the wrong conclusion when he thought he was in for sloppy seconds, that was his whole point of being here at the moment, to clear the air about that. That first kiss - that brilliant, sweet, drunken smooch - that had been fifty-fifty! Surely! As tight as he had been, he vividly remembered Aziraphale melting into it, pulling Crowley against him. There were several grades of kisses and this one had been stellar! And not just because it had been Aziraphale. Alright, so roughly 70 percent because it had been Aziraphale, but it would have been good with anyone! Not that Crowley could think of a single person he would really want to snog in that moment other than _Aziraphale_ but whatever! It had been nice and mutual and _not_ just Crowley's mistake! If it had been a mistake at all. That lousy, little hypocrite! They had kissed _each other_ and now he was wiping it off on Crowley -!   
But as Crowley thought of opening his mouth to voice these thoughts, rather than just sit there open-mouthed with a slowly burning fag between his fingers, he took an extra, hard look at Aziraphale. That was just the thing, was it not? Aziraphale was not a hypocrite. At least... not _that_ kind of hypocrite. He was a very different kind of clerical hypocrite, that was what had started this whole desperate, horny mess for Crowley in the first place.   
And right now the excellent little hypocrite blond was refusing to meet his gaze. His breath was light and fast, like something small, fuzzy and scared trapped in a corner, and his forehead was furrowed. He just stood there, in his all-black clerical outfit, which really did in no way suit him, looking at his hands as they fiddled with his cigarette as if he worried that the movement of raising it to his lips for another drag would draw unwanted attention to him.   
Any anger Crowley should have felt, because of who he was as a person, really, at the priest, for dropping it all on him, faltered, being replaced with an achy, frustrated sympathy, a deeply irritating _respect_ that refused to let him feel any disappointment or betrayal he would have liked to feel.  
"Yeah. Like I said... Sorry..." he muttered, finally.  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue. He finally raised his smoke and took a long, deep drag.   
"You do see why, I trust," he said, somewhat out of context, voice hollow and a grim line running over his profile, from his nostril to the corner of his mouth.   
Crowley sighed.   
_Yeah. I get it, Angel. I do..._   
"As long as you're not mad..." he said carefully.  
Aziraphale finally looked at him, a careful peek through the corner of his eye.   
"Never you worry," he said quietly.   
Crowley tried his hand at a hesitant smile.   
"Right..."   
"Right."   
Aziraphale nodded firmly, then pulled slightly at his dog collar. With a tut, he pinched his smoke between his lips and reached up to undo his collar. Once freed, he carefully rolled it up and stuck it in his trouser pocket along with the buttons, while Crowley slowly died on the inside over how weirdly pornographic the blond looked, taking off his bloody garbs with that little frown of concentration on his forehead and smoke billowing from his ciggy... This must be how Victorians had felt looking at naked ankles...  
Aziraphale plucked the cigarette from his lips and inspected the cherry, blowing a puff of smoke out the corner of his mouth.   
"I hope this won't... mean we won't be seeing each other socially..." he said carefully. "I'd uh... prefer if we didn't have to come up with an excuse as to why poker night as suddenly been... amputated... You can see why, I'm sure."  
Crowley's heart had been leaping out of his chest at the start of that sentence. It did, however slow a little by the end of it. Right. Of course. Best to not let anything on...   
"Yeah, yeah, I get it..."   
Aziraphale wrung his hands.   
"Would hardly be fair to exclude you from social activities, just because you had a few too many one night and no one got hurt," he said quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly.   
_Oh, you little snitches,_ Crowley thought, looking at the desperately fiddling hands. _You really do want me there, don't you, Angel?_   
"Someone's gotta flirt with Marjie," he said to try and lighten the mood a little.   
Aziraphale valiantly tried to giggle, but did not quite make the mark.  
"Ah, yes. Marjie..."   
Crowley decided that it was _way_ too complicated to analyse the disappointment in Aziraphale's voice, and instead just let it be.   
"There's the market day too," he suggested in an attempt to move on.   
He wanted to leave the way Aziraphale lit up at those words unanalysed too, but could not quite help himself. Part of him wondered if perhaps Aziraphale actually just _liked_ his company, so much so that he was willing to risk it despite what else might be between them.   
"Oh! So you will be attending, then!" Aziraphale beamed.   
"I'm setting up the self-serve stall," Crowley shrugged, because there was no need to cheapen himself too much when Aziraphale was so willing tagging along. "Might go for a quick peek or something." He was about to stump out his fag, but Aziraphale's pocket ashtray materialised next to his hand at lighting speed.   
"I've seen the list of stalls this year," Aziraphale said as Crowley stubbed out his smoke. "Quite the turn-up, actually. Might take you a bit to make a full round."   
Crowley sniffed.  
"Didn't say I was going to make it all the way 'round," he said. "I gotta make sure to be home alone by the time the murder's committed."  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"M-murder?"  
"Yeah. Y'know, I have to make sure I don't have an alibi. Otherwise Barnaby won't have a red herring to chase for twenty minutes."  
He watched as Aziraphale processed the joke and then snorted with laughter.  
"Oh, right, yes, I see. Very good."   
Crowley smirked as Aziraphale chuckled to himself and things almost felt as if last night had not ended the way it did.   
"I suppose I'll be seeing you on Thursday evening, then," Aziraphale said as he put out his own ciggy as well. "I hate to be shooing you out, but I do need to get a bit of work done." He nodded his head towards the office building, and by proxy, the church. "I'm writing another foundation trust about grant. For the roof... "  
Crowley looked at the squad structure.   
Yeah. That thing that was getting between them...   
"Right. Sure. I should probably... make sure I'm ready for the afternoon rush..." he said.   
Aziraphale nodded. Smiled a little sadly.   
"Yes... We... _both_ have things we should be doing," he mumbled. He cleared his throat. "Thursday night then," he said brightly, bravely.   
Crowley nodded.  
"Thursday night."   
Thursday night. Just buddies playing poker. He could live with that. He had to.

Aziraphale sighed to himself as he listened to the Bentley zooming out of the gravel yard. He felt absolutely rotten, about so many things. First he had felt guilty about what he had done the previous night. Now he felt bad for how poorly he had thought of Crowley. The man had after all showed up to see if Aziraphale was okay, if he had caused any sort of actual _upset._ And that had lead directly to Aziraphale now feeling bad about what he had just done. Wiping it all off on Crowley, as if he had... taken some sort of advantage. All that was left now was hoping that Crowley understood why this was how it had to be. Aziraphale really did want to keep seeing the man, both because it would look odd if they suddenly cut off contact and because... because seeing Crowley felt good. Maybe some day a little bit of their... banter bordering on something else could return, although for now it was definitely off the menu. But just seeing each other... chatting. There was no harm in having a friend. Right?   
There were several types of harm in having a 'friend', Aziraphale realised as he deleted the nonsensical sentence he had just painstakingly typed out. The sort of harm where you innocently played along, because it was just _shits and giggles_ , right? The sort of harm where you were far too happy to lie in a deeply inappropriate pile on a sofa. The sort of harm where you got drunk and _kissed Crowley back_ despite knowing full well that you should be doing anything _but_ that... In fact, being friends with Crowley was exactly the sort of insidious closeness that the Church warned their priests against...  
With a vexed groan, Aziraphale pushed away from his desk.   
Deidre looked up.   
"Something wrong? Still feeling poorly?" she asked.   
"What? Oh. Nono, no, I'm fine, I'm quite fine," Aziraphale muttered distractedly.   
"Was Crowley alright?" Deidre continued friendlily.   
Aziraphale sincerely doubted that neither he nor Crowley were really what one would call exactly 'alright', but that was neither here nor there.  
"Mustn't snoop, dear," he tutted mildly.   
Deidre looked suitably guilty and not an ounce more. She never really _snooped_ , truth be told, she just kept some a bit of a mental score of who was and was not feeling quite right in the village. Aziraphale knew she only did it because she cared, not because she wanted any particular details.   
"I'm, uh... I'm going to go pray," Aziraphale continued, trying his best to not sound like there was any sort of _reason_.   
Deidre hummed sympathetically.  
"Let me write that grant application, you. Don't stress yourself out."  
Aziraphale smiled tiredly.   
"I just have a feeling it tugs at a few more heartstrings if I'm the one writing..." he said.   
Deidre shrugged.   
"I'll just write it on your computer and send it from your email address," she said calmly.   
Aziraphale tutted.  
"Naughty," he smirked.   
"Efficient," Deidre said shamelessly, wheeling herself across the room in her desk chair. "Go do your thing and I'll do mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what people were hoping for the morning after to be like :P But this is what we're running with. Angel you're a rotten little shit. Thank Frances McDormand that Crowley isn't entirely stupid.
> 
> Kudos and comments are LYF so feel free to drop one or both <3  
> As always, I plead with you to forgive my typos and whatever auto-corrected bs my writing software has managed to sneak under he radar


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff I posted Thursday wasn't really... it just wasn't quite doing it for me. So let's try this again. The first part is most repost, with a few minor changes and then there's a fuckton added, ginormous length be damned.  
> This way we can actually get moving with things.

_Sunday 2nd July_

Aziraphale was bouncing with excitement, despite being a tad bit warm in his dark clerics, specially donned for the day. The market day way in full swing, with colourful pennants flapping gently from lines around the perimeter of the village green, buzzing with the sound of several hundred voices as half of Oxfordshire seemed to have turned up, leaving the entire village crammed full of parked cars in what seemed to be every space that was even remotely close to large enough to park a car in. The church parking lot was stuffed to the brim and Aziraphale honestly wondered how on Earth the people who had arrived first were even going to get their cars out, should they wish to leave early. Oh well, the longer they stayed, the better for the vendors, he supposed.   
He had just purchased a large shortbread biscuit for himself from Bert's stall - or rather, he had sidled up, looking hopeful, and Eliza, Bert's wife, a smiling, middle-aged woman with skin so tan it looked like an old leather bag and chipperly permed, silver hair, who usually worked at the kindergarten in Norton but had come to help mind the stall for the day, had pushed it Aziraphale with a wink and shooed him off. Now he was strolling around the green, taking in the layout of everything - and maybe, just maybe looking for a mob of flaming red hair. Crowley _had_ said he would swing by at some point. But the market had been open for a full hour and the closest thing to a sign of Crowley was the fully stocked self-serve box, which Newton had flusteredly wrangled across the road, huffing and struggling, to park it next to Anathema's, at the time mercifully unmanned stall - or perhaps _unwomanned_ , Aziraphale was somewhat unsure what her opinion on that particular matter would be - from where she had apparently promised to keep an eye on it throughout the day.   
Someone poked Aziraphale and the shoulder and he turned, with a friendly smile, only to find no one. As he turned back around however, frowning slightly to himself, he nearly butted heads with the grinning Crowley.  
"Good morning, Aziraphale!"   
Aziraphale blinked owlishly.   
"Crowley..."   
"So... Market day, huh?" Crowley drawled, one hand hanging loosely by the thumb in the pocket of his carefully cuffed jeans - with ripped knees, a feature Aziraphale was convinced that Crowley was far too old for, no matter how much he lied about his age - which showed off tan, bony ankles and a pair of studded loafers in a snakeskin look, while the other hand casually held onto a black silk blazer slung over his shoulder. His hair was up in one of his usual neatly messy buns and his dark glasses where in place on his nose. He looked entirely too expensive to be spending his day at a village fair.   
"Uh. Yes! Yes, market day, indeed. Just look at this turn-out! And the weather too!" Aziraphale quickly cut himself off and took a bite out of his biscuit before he could go on a ramble about _the weather_.   
Crowley watched with his usual mild interest as he lowered the biscuit once more.   
"Yeah..."   
Aziraphale nibbled some more on his biscuit to distract himself. He had had to cancel on poker night on Thursday, due to a phone call from the hospice and thusly had no spoken to Crowley since their... chat. He still felt desperately guilty and had been eager for Crowley to come to the fair so that they could... get on with it. This, their new, flirt-free, entirely appropriate acquaintance where they simply enjoyed one another's company without any... implications.   
Now, if only Crowley would play along and actually be _companionable_..! Rather than this awkward... urgh.   
"So, uh... What would you like to see first?" Aziraphale asked. "Bert and the wife are just over there, Anathema is here too, as you know, we could go say hello to her..." A couple walked past, just then. The woman had a bouquet of flowers in her hand. "Look, you've already had customers!" Aziraphale said excitedly.   
Crowley sniffed.   
"Yeah, cool. Whatever you reckon's worth looking at, I suppose..."   
Aziraphale fiddled with his biscuit, it was starting crumble around all the edges.   
_Bit like his hopes for the day...  
_ "Perhaps we should just go for a walk around the place... have a bit of a look at the, uh... sights? Perhaps I could introduce you to a few more local key figures, in case your paths have yet to cross?" he suggested. "Starting here," he quickly continued as Crowley seemed somewhat lukewarm to the idea, and gestured towards the nearest stall where Deidre and Maud were chatting with an elderly couple, pushing a flyer at them. "The church info stall. About the roof project and such, you know."   
"Shouldn't you be over there?" Crowley asked. "Making puppy eyes and shaking a tin at passers-by? Y'know... Doing something for the project? Although, fair is fair, letting the local Yummy Mummy club do it is probably a sound advertisement move."  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue and wrung his hands as much as he could without reducing the remainder of his biscuit to crumbs.  
"I - yes, well, I suppose I should... But it's - it's my stomach. You may remember? You see, people get curious, don't they, and ask all these polite questions and I just - I can't do it. I tried last year, I really did, but my tummy... absolutely rebelled against it, if you will please pardon the over-sharing." He sighed. "We've deemed it best that I stay out of the whole... PR business this year." Aziraphale continued to fiddle with his shortbread as they walked up to the booth were Maud and Deidre were still entertaining the couple. "But we have pamphlets!" he announced excitedly, holding up one such item to Crowley. "Very nice ones, explaining the history of the church and the roof project and all."  
Crowley plucked the folder out of Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale expected him to cast a quick look on the smiling woman on the front page, with her plaids and her miniature church in one hand, but to his surprise Crowley actually looked the whole thing through, albeit briefly, before shaking the flyer slightly, watching the paper wobble.  
"Pamphlets," he drawled. "And nice ones too. Decent paper, custom front page art, I'm guessing?" He hummed as Aziraphale nodded eagerly. "Sounds expensive," Crowley concluded "Shouldn't that money be spent on the roof instead? Every penny counts, right?"  
"The Advertiser kindly make them for us for free," Aziraphale explained, a bit hurt at this accusation of frivolous use of church funds, as the old couple slowly began moving on to the next stall after dropping a bit of loose change into a tin box.  
"So you get free stuff and he gets a fast track pass to Heaven?" Crowley smirked.   
Aziraphale tutted.  
"The chief editor is a member of the Historical Society, who take a keen interest in the project," he said. As Maud sidled up, he decided to change the topic, rather than broadcast Crowley's rocky feelings about the Church. "Hello, Maud, dear. Have you met Crowley yet? Crowley this is Maud. She's our parish council secretary."   
"I don't believe we've met, no," Crowley said, his bloody _smile_ back in place. "And more's the pity."   
Maud giggled. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and cast a look towards Deidre. She was busy pouring herself a cup of coffee from a thermos, but she was grinning to herself and shaking her head slightly.   
"We live in Upper, so that'd be why," Maud said. "I've met the products of your work though, more than once. Leslie has started bringing home flowers at least once a week after you put up that self-serve stall."  
"You expect us to believe he didn't before?" Deidre snorted, still smirking. The remark knocked Aziraphale out of his sulking, stealing a giggle from him.   
"Used to be just once a month. And for the big days of course," Maud shot back chipperly. "But now with your lovely box up, it's so easy for him to swoop past and grab me a bunch..."  
"Making married women happy is what I do," Crowley purred.   
Maud and Deidre howled with laughter while Aziraphale struggled the best he could to laugh along.   
"Well... Crowley has a busy schedule for the day," he said. "So perhaps we should ample along..."  
"Too busy for the lovely ladies? Do you even know me at all?" Crowley drawled.   
Leslie the postman mercifully chose that exact moment to turn up, in a truly retina-rendering Bermuda shirt and tennis socks in his sandals, stealing Maud's attention.   
"Hi there, Tiger."  
"Hello, gorgeous." Leslie did a wave that he was probably the only person who did not find awkward - expect for Maud perhaps. "Hello everyone."  
Maud slipped out from behind the stall and wound herself around Leslie's arm.   
"Didz, do you mind if I pop off for a little bit?"   
Deidre smirked.  
"Nono, you go ahead. Half an hour?"  
Maud nodded and walked away, arm in arm with Leslie, who, after not quite enough paces, reached behind her to give her backside a firm squeeze.   
Deidre's smirk grew stronger as her eyes met Aziraphale's.   
"How long's it been now?"  
"Their marriage? Seventeen years," Aziraphale announced. "Theirs was the first wedding I performed," he explained to Crowley. "And they're still honeymooning."  
"I don't know how they do it," Deidre said. "I can't complain about Arthur, he's perfectly sweet, but we're pushing eleven and we've definitely settled more than those two."  
Crowley raised his brows sky-high and made a noise in his throat, a sort of creaking, humming sound, as if to imply something amusing and potentially wicked.   
Deidre spluttered into her coffee in a shameless giggling fit and Aziraphale groaned and rolled his eyes. They would end up getting stuck rolled back into his skull if Crowley kept being on this behaviour! He grabbed the snickering ginger by the arm.   
"Yes, well, I promised to show Crowley around to make sure he doesn't randomly make a puddle on the wrong person's shoes, and the sooner I'm done with that, the jollier my day!" He trudged off, hauling along the now fully laughing Crowley by the arm. "You're a menace you are," he groused. "Could've sworn you said you were... weaning off women," he muttered, low enough for only Crowley to hear and instantly regretting even bringing up that conversation as it made him recall the chain reaction it had started. And how that had ended. He quickly let go of Crowley's arm.   
Crowley wrinkled his nose cheekily.  
"Yeah, well. I guess you could say I'm socially married."   
Aziraphale blinked.  
"Pardon?"   
"Y'know. S'like social smoking," Crowley explained calmly. "'Cept instead of smoking other people's darts, I'm banging their wives," he finished with an impish cackle.   
Aziraphale was about to make his opinion on this dreadfully tasteless joke - which was most certainly not due to the idea of Crowley in bed with someone else bothering him, _not in the slightest, in fact_! - when a young, tubby woman, dressed in a garish pink tank top and a raggedy tulle skirt of nearly but not quite the same colour, who had been painting a butterfly across a little girl's face, got up from her chair and hurried over to where Crowley and Aziraphale were standing.   
"'Morning, Father A..."  
Aziraphale let Crowley's tastelessness be for the time being.  
"Mavis! My dear, how are you!"   
"Can we... talk?" Mavis looked at Crowley, a bit nervously. "In... private or..."  
Aziraphale gingerly took her hand and shot Crowley a look, as the redhead had inched closer, face alert and curious as he had clearly recognised Mavis.   
"Yes, Crowley. Do you mind?" Aziraphale said primly, shoving the remains of his biscuit at Crowley before shooing him away.   
Crowley looked disappointed - and a bit annoyed to suddenly be in charge of the biscuit - but at least seemed to be trying to look like he had no exact idea why he was being sent away as he slinked of with a 'ngk'. Aziraphale glared after him for bit, then turned towards Mavis again.  
"Now, sweetheart, what news?"

Ten minutes later Mavis had gone back to painting faces and Aziraphale was now searching for Crowley. As the crowd briefly parted, he caught sight of Crowley's bright red locks further down the path, near where it bent to follow the outline of the village green. Crowley was standing by a bit of rail to which a couple of ponies were tied, chatting to Tiffany, the oldest daughter of a couple who ran a stable on a farm about five miles from the village and offered horseback riding lessons. Crowley had a forearm elegantly leaning on the back of the docile old nag, all bright roguishly charming smiles and cocked hips, while the young woman on the other side of pony was visibly giggling, barely paying the pony any attention, too caught up in Crowley.   
Crowley must have said something particularly funny as Aziraphale watched, because he suddenly earned himself a light push on the shoulder from his laughing conversation partner.  
Aziraphale felt something inside his mind that could most closely be likened to a pencil snapping. And then he pulled himself together, because today was a fresh start for him and Crowley. He had told Crowley to back off, Crowley had backed, they were now simply friends and being mad because someone flirtingly touched your friend on the shoulder was _not_ a thing one... did! Aziraphale being silly. He wanted nothing of the sort from Crowley, but someone else might - and frankly who could blame them, Crowley was marvelously good looking and infinitely charming. It was no bloody wonder that someone would want... to cup a feel of that particular backside...  
Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly to himself as he walked towards the hitching rail, ignoring the tightness of Crowley's jeans with a fervor with which he had never ignored such a thing before.  
"Oh, there you are!" he said chipperly, purging any dismay from his mind. "Making yourself some new friends, Crowley?"  
"Just a couple of cute little ladies," Crowley said, patting the pony. "The animals, of course," he added, clearly fibbing, earning himself another hysterical giggle from Tiffany. "But since you're here now, I should probably get going, I'm afraid," he said apologetically. "I wanted to go see how the self-serve box is doing. Business, you know," he explained to Tiffany with a disdainful nose wrinkle. "Call me, right, pet, when you know more?"  
Tiffany smiled brightly with a promise of doing just that, while Crowley nudged his elbow against Aziraphale's to sort of shepherd him away, back into the crowd.  
"So what's the story, then?" Crowley asked, leaning conspiratorially in.   
Aziraphale tutted.  
"The story is that Tiffany is most definitely too young for you!" he said, because that was absolutely true and not just a bad excuse! What would it be an excuse for??  
Crowley frowned.   
"Wha'? Oh, her, nah, nah, that was all business," he said with a dismissive wave.  
"What kind of business?" Aziraphale asked with a suspicious frown.  
"You know when you feed a pony..." Crowley said, clearly ignoring Aziraphale's pointed tone. "there's usually a pay-off on the other end?"  
Aziraphale was getting increasingly lost in this conversation.  
"I'm not sure I'd call that a pay-off..." he said.  
"I have a couple of tomato plants that would beg to differ," Crowley said. "And chances are that other people in the area do too. And y'know, you gotta feed the bloody nags and you gotta do something with... the resulting mess."  
"So you're looking to buy manure... to sell at the shop?"  
Crowley nodded.   
"Flirt with the owner's daughter, get the stuff for peanuts. Mix in a gram of blood meal per 200 pounds of muck, three drops of modern shit... Slap on a table of contents with no percentages shown and a 'locally made' sticker, and Bob's your bloody uncle!" he announced smugly.   
Aziraphale was unsure if he was more surprised by Crowley's entrepreneurial streak or by the fact that he was surprised in the first place. He was about to compliment Crowley but the redhead was apparently moving on;  
"Now. Back to the main story. That was, uh... a certain young lady, who came to talk to you just now, no?" he muttered.  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"That was confidential!" he scoffed.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Bit like my folders," he trilled dryly. "Come on. _Angel._ " He peered at Aziraphale over the edge of his dark glasses. "I'm already involved. Just tell me what she wanted. Did she get it done or nah?"   
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air, willfully ignoring the comment - and the surge in his stomach the sound of his silly pet name brought up. He reminded himself that it had initially come about as a sarcastic jab at his... less than Church-approved - but mostly Crowley-approved - opinions and not a saccharine endearment and got a hold of himself. It was just a nickname. Friends used those sometimes.   
"Did she look pregnant to you?" he asked quietly.   
"Takes a while to show once they get a bit pudgy," Crowley said, studying Aziraphale's face.  
Aziraphale pursed his lips.  
"Will take a well long while before Mavis starts showing..." he muttered aloofly.   
Crowley nodded.  
"Ah. Cool. Great. Good for her."  
"She did what she found best," Aziraphale conceded, casting a glance back towards the face paint stall where Mavis' father was now walking up.  
"As you told her to."  
"I did, I did."  
"Something for your evening prayers then, I guess," Crowley mused, possibly a tad pointedly.  
"I'm sure it won't take too much convincing," Aziraphale said with a nose wrinkle. "Mavis is a very sweet girl. Just... always a bit unlucky."  
"How long's it been since she... had it done?" Crowley pondered, bobbing his head.   
"A fair while, she said. She hasn't had the time to come and see me about it. School and such, exams drawing closer." Aziraphale nodded to himself. "I'll admit I had been a bit worried when  
she stopped coming in on Sundays... But she was nervous about taking confession and didn't want people to wonder why she didn't take holy communion and... well, you can see how it all follows."  
"So you got it over now? Here?" Crowley asked. "Bit public, innit?"  
Aziraphale shrugged.   
"That's her choice. I don't think anyone heard." He squinted at Crowley. "Speaking of things people _miss_... Where's my biscuit?"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Eh, I needed an opener with the pony girl," he said casually.  
Aziraphale gasped in abject horror.  
"You fed my shortbread to a _pony??_ "  
"It was getting all sweaty just sitting in my palm anyway!" Crowley argued. "You wouldn't have wanted it back."  
"My shortbread..!" Aziraphale sputtered.  
Crowley felt a completely disproportionate amount of pressure for such a benign - and ridiculous - situation. But Aziraphale's massive, blameful, blue eyes once again seemed to trigger some sort of response in the ovaries that Crowley had never in his life had, making him desperate to right his grievous wrong.  
"The nag seemed to enjoy it," he offered as a consolation.  
" _I_ was enjoying it!" Aziraphale howled, loud enough that a few people began to look.   
"I'll get you a new one," Crowley negotiated. This was the pea situation all over again, but at least this time, there was a readily available fix. He wished he could fix more than just the biscuit, but as it was, the biscuit would have to do, he supposed.   
Aziraphale considered the offer, lips pursed and eyes darting about.  
"I don't think I want another biscuit," he finally said. "I think a cup of tea would do me much more good. I'm beginning to feel a bit parched."  
Crowley was never _ever_ going to analyse how desperately disappointed that first sentence had made him.   
"Yes, alright, cup of tea it is, my treat," he conceded tiredly.   
Aziraphale lit up, like the bastard had not just practically _asked_ Crowley to buy him a bloody cuppa and for a moment, with their bickering and Crowley bribing Aziraphale to stop pouting and start glowing by promising him food stuffs, everything felt sort of like no drunken blunders had taken place. But then Aziraphale seemed to remember himself.   
"That's very nice of you," he said measuredly. "Thank you."  
 _Keeping it cool, eh, Angel? Wouldn't want to slip too much into old patterns..._ Crowley thought to himself, potentially with a bit of a bitter undertone, as he gestured elegantly at nowhere in particular.  
"Lead the way."

The walk to get tea took them past several stalls selling local arts and crafts, a tombola run by the Tadfield Girl Guides, and a large fruit and veg booth, the latter of which stalled their journey considerably as Aziraphale hemmed and hawed looking over the many sorts of produce. Crowley's self-control was severely tested as Aziraphale tried a bite of anything and everything that could be sampled on the spot in its uncooked state. Just as Crowley was about to fall to his knees and scream at the universe at large, for the massive unfairness that was the fact that Aziraphale was a man of principle and conscience and not just a complete bastard, while Aziraphale sucked plum juice off his fingers, the universe seemed to hear his wordless lament and in its own sick, twisted take on comedy let a Punch and Judy show start just next to the fruit and veg stall. Aziraphale lost all interest in doing inadvertently suggestive things to his digits in favour of giggling excitedly at Mr Punch's antics.   
"Weren't you thirsty?" Crowley grumbled at a respectable distance from Aziraphale's ear after a couple of minutes of the incessant, mechanical cackling, which had left him ready to beat up both Missus _and_ Mister Punch.   
Aziraphale flinched like he had completely forgotten himself for a moment and looked at Crowley a bit guiltily.  
"Oh! Of course, yes! You offered to buy me a cuppa!" He stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out a canvas tote bag with an image of a plump, cherubic baroque angel's head with wings growing straight out of the back of the head printed on the front. "Hold this for me, please? It'll only be a moment!"  
 _As if you had forgotten your tea, you sweet, delicious pain in the arse,_ Crowley thought to himself, tucking his blazer under one arm and dutifully holding out the tote bag for Aziraphale to slip in a plastic crate of peaches and a bag of mixed pears and apples.   
Aziraphale paid with a handful of loose change from his whimsical little chintz coin purse and snapped the clasps shut.   
"Right then! Tea!" He tottered along merrily, leaving Crowley to follow along on his own, the ugly bloody tote bag still in his hand.   
Crowley sighed down at the absentmindedly smiling angel. It was nice seeing Aziraphale, socially. Even when Crowley was being used for a mule. When the blond had ducked out of poker night, Crowley had quietly wondered what the odds were that there had in fact _not_ been a call from the hospice and if perhaps Aziraphale was simply chickening out. The fact that Crowley had as of yet not received any orders for funeral flowers spoke in favour of that theory, sadly. He had debated not coming to the market day at all, in case his budding theory was true, not wanting to drag himself through an awkward hour of stilted chatting amongst noisy, over-excited people and the sad ruins of how easy things had previously been between Aziraphale and himself, all for the sake of not looking like they had had a falling out.   
But Aziraphale seemed reasonably pleased to see him - minus the biscuit thing, maybe - although it was obvious that he trying to dial things back a bit and the result was a bit stiff and awkward around the edges. So perhaps it had been true, about that call. It was far from impossible. Perhaps someone had simply felt their time draw near and wanted to have their last rites. Crowley had debated discreetly asking about it, but Aziraphale would only call on the client confidentiality and refuse to answer anything and outright asking if Aziraphale had been avoiding Crowley seemed petty when he was right there in front of Crowley, quite obviously putting in some sort of effort to at least not make things horrid, even if it was not quite working.   
In spite of several people stopping them to gleefully chat with Aziraphale about the brilliant turn-up, the nice weather and the _lovely_ pamphlets from the church stall, they finally, actually _reached_ the tea tent, which was, according to Aziraphale - and presumably he knew - run by a café owner from Norton who always stocked a very nice tea blend. Crowley offered to elbow his way to the front of the queue, fetch Aziraphale his cup of earl grey with a pinch of milk and then they could hightail it out, but Aziraphale sternly refused, forcing Crowley to instead dutifully, if pretty annoyedly, take his place behind a long line of English people, all gagging for a brew inside the roasting tent.   
"Oo-oo! Doves! Finally I find you!" Marjorie, holding a cardboard cup holder with two steaming cups, suddenly slipped out of the steady trickle of people leaving, desperately clutching their hot beverages, instead inserting herself in the narrow gap between Crowley and Aziraphale, as the throng of people leaving the tent or awkwardly pushing their way between the closely packed picnic tables, had forced them to inch closer and closer together. "Been looking all over! Would've thought tall, red, and handsome here would've stood out like a sore thumb, but no. So," Marjorie asked, fluttering her lashes at Crowley. "how do you like the village market day, city slicker?"   
Crowley hummed.  
"Eh. S'a'ight, I guess. Bit disappointed, though," he sniffled. "I got up early this morning an' all, just to bust my piggy bank open. And then I get here and find out you aren't running a kissing booth anyway, so it's all a wasted effort."  
"HAH!" Marjorie held a hand in front of her mouth in affected horror. "Aw, poor dear!" She held the cup holder out towards Aziraphale, who took it bewilderedly. "C'mere then, you poor thing!" She grabbed Crowley by the cheeks and pulled him down to plant a big smooch right on his mouth. "This colour even suits you!" she cackled as she pulled back from a snickering Crowley with his glasses knocked crooked on his nose and a big, dark orange lip print, nearly the same colour as Marjorie's hair, on his face.   
"Glad to hear it," Crowley joked dryly. "Wouldn't wanna walk around looking like a complete fanny all afternoon."  
Aziraphale chuckled along, but with no heart in it. Of course Marjorie and Crowley still had their usual silly buggers. Just because Aziraphale had put a stopper in all that, the World kept on spinning, did it not?  
 _If your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out.  
_ Aziraphale was unsure if this was strictly speaking his _eye_ causing the issues, and he was unsure if perhaps 'gouged' was a bit dramatic a descriptor for what he had done, but he nonetheless felt like he could pat himself on the back for having _done something_ to deal with things.   
"Are you coming, ducks?"   
The queue had moved forward and Aziraphale had been too lost in thought to notice. Marjorie waved him closer and quickly hurried along with an apology to the people behind him. Aziraphale was unsure if it was simply his imagination, but he thought he saw Crowley give him a bit of a funny look for a brief second. Almost as if he could guess what Aziraphale had been thinking. Aziraphale held onto his tote bag with both hands and looked away. It was no good letting on what his mind had been up to. It was all over. No point in giving Crowley any funny ideas.  
"Oh, look!" He pointed outside and a few stalls further down where a pen containing a few sheep was put up.   
"I've already been," Marjorie said fondly. "You can buy a bag of pellets for a quid and feed 'em."  
Aziraphale was unreasonably excited for a man his age at the prospect of feeding sheep. The unreasonableness of his obvious delight was however, in Crowley's humble opinion, strongly mitigated by the fact that 'delighted' was Aziraphale's ultimately best look. Not that it mattered.  
 _Dial back on the drooling, Crowley. It's be good or be gone...  
_ "How... authentic," he noted dubiously, doing the best a poor queer of unmentionable age could to ignore Aziraphale's glow. He pushed his bottom lip out in thought. "Actually, speaking of that... Moving to the country side... I'd have thought it would smell more like..." He sniffed at the faint scent of sheep. "shit. I've been genuinely surprised... Pleasantly so, but... surprised. I thought animals smelled?"  
"We have a lot of historical sites in the area," Aziraphale explained. "like the Hill Fort. I don't know if you've had a chance to go take a look at it yet..."   
Crowley shook his head, one brow creeping sceptically towards his hair line.   
"Oh, well you should go sometime, it's marvellous out there!" Aziraphale said excitedly. "Quite tranquil, gives you time to think. Perhaps I could -" He cut himself off. _I could take you there sometime. We could go for a walk and I could tell you about it!_ "Perhaps I can take you to the Historical Society's stall. They may have a map for you..."   
"Doesn't explain why the village doesn't smell like shit," Crowley said.  
Aziraphale groaned inwardly.   
_Right. The question you were asking before I nearly suggested we go for a quiet walk in the woods, alone, to a secluded place...  
_ "As I was about to explain, before you interrupted me," he snipped. "due to the historical sites, plowing and such is out of the question. By keeping sheep, the farmers can grift funds from Historical England or some such by grazing their sheep on those historical sites that need to be kept. And then, when there isn't enough grass on the Hill Fort, the sheep need to go somewhere else, so it's all grazing land around here." He cleared his throat. "But perhaps while I'm feeding the sheep, you could ask Mr McIntyre about it, if you want to hear it from an expert..." he finished lamely.   
"Expert," Marjorie echoed sardonically. "On sheep, perhaps..."  
"Customer of yours, my lovely?" Crowley asked, leaning an elbow on Marjorie's shoulder, clearly much more interested in gossip than in local sites of archeological value and their impact on how the land was farmed. He peered towards the sheep's pen, where Mr McIntyre could now be seen, explaining something to a couple of children. "That him?"  
"Indeed," Marjorie said dryly.  
"Looks the bloody sort too, doesn't he?" Crowley noted. "Reminds me of more than one john I've had in my time."  
Aziraphale cleared his throat.   
"You two, please! There are children around," he said as the other two looked at him in confusion. "Perhaps a topic better saved for poker night when children are no longer allowed in the pub?"  
Marjorie made a startled little noise.  
"Speaking of poker night! That other coffee is for Anathema!" She grabbed the cup holder from Aziraphale. "She's been waiting a fair while now, this queue is atrocious! Must dash! Will see you boys later!"   
As the queue moved forward once more and Marjorie ran off, Crowley quirked a brow at Aziraphale.   
"Gotten tired of my anecdotes from my past life?" he asked, with maybe a little more edge than he had meant to, but unable to help himself.   
_I seem to recall you found them hilarious not too long ago...  
_ Aziraphale tutted.   
"I just don't think now's the time," he said evasively, wringing his hands. "Blimey, it is warm in here!"  
Changing the topic. Back to the weather. Standard procedure. Fine by Crowley. The sad little wrinkle now sitting between Aziraphale's brows was best to be avoided.  
"Yeah... Are you really that much in need of a cuppa?" Crowley asked, gesturing at the queue.  
Aziraphale pulled slightly at his dog collar.   
"We've lasted this long, though..." he fretted.   
"There's seven bloody miles left to go still, can't we scram, come on!" Crowley whined.   
"Oh, alright."  
The summer day was still warm and... summery outside as they exited the tent, but considerably less grueling than the air inside. A slight breeze had the trees outlining the back of the village green rustle where they stood just behind the tea tent. Aziraphale veered off the path, to stand beside the tent where he was out of other people's way.  
"Hold on one second, I need to do something before I keel over."  
Crowley dangled along, tote bag still in hand, and hung about as Aziraphale meticulously rolled up his sleeves. He was halfway done with the second sleeve when suddenly the postman's dishy wife came stumbling out of the tree line, about seven feet away.   
"Oh! Oh, Father A! Didn't see you there!"   
Crowley and Aziraphale looked after her as she hurried off, cheeks red and hair ruffled. As she vanished in the crowd, the two men looked at each other. Crowley felt a grin creep onto his face.  
"No." Aziraphale said sternly. "No, do not. I know what you're going to say and I will not -"  
Postman Pat came sneaking out of the trees next, very clearly checking to make sure his flies were done up. He looked like he had very much been _caught_ when he saw Crowley and Aziraphale stood there, looking straight at him, Aziraphale's hand still on his sleeve.   
"Father A! Mr Crowley. How's the market so far?"  
He seemed unwilling to wait around to hear their answers as he scurried off after his wife.  
Crowley looked at his watch.   
"Been more than half an hour," he noted dryly.   
For a moment they both looked at his wrist watch, then up at each other and burst into laughter.  
"She's on the parish council?" Crowley hiccuped disbelievingly.   
"She's awfully sweet and nice and very good at typing," Aziraphale argued, still giggling, finishing on his sleeve and ushering Crowley along.   
Crowley was about to make some lewd comment, when suddenly something snapped itself around his leg. He looked down and into the face of a horrified four-year-old who immediately let go and fled.  
"Wrong leg," Crowley snickered.  
Aziraphale winced.  
"Oh, the mortification..."  
Crowley snorted.  
"Yeahp. I remember one time I did it at the supermarket... and then we ended up behind that same damn lady in the queue for the check-out. And she recognised me too!"  
Aziraphale looked genuinely upset.  
"How on Earth did you not die from embarrassment??"  
Crowley cackled.  
"I was ready to claw my way through the linoleum and dig a tunnel to the parking lot. I'd rather have had my chin caught in my jacket zipper a thousand times..."  
"Ooh! Or the clip on the bike helmet..." Aziraphale muttered, pressing a hand to his chin.   
"Bloody - I swear, my old man did it on purpose!" Crowley sputtered indignantly.   
"I figured out how to avoid it." Aziraphale said excitedly, as if this knowledge was of any use now. "I'd always make sure to go get the helmet myself and loosen the strap a bit before going back in."  
"I just threw a hissy fit every time," Crowley said with a miffed nose wrinkle.  
"Adults really ought to be more careful with bike helmets," Aziraphale said, pursing his lips, and still rubbing his double chin. "and put more effort into explaining to children that everyone grabs the wrong leg sometime."  
Crowley chuckled.  
"Don't take sweets from strangers, look both ways before you cross the road, it's okay to cling to the wrong leg at the shops, happens to everyone," he summarised.   
Aziraphale giggled but nodded firmly.  
"Yes! Should be a standard life lesson." he fussed. They passed an ice cream van and he was distracted. "Oh!" His hand flapped up to rest on Crowley's shoulder while his face was trained on the price list. "This'll be just the thing! Care to join me?"   
Crowley sniffed.  
"'Pends what kinda ice cream van it is," he said slyly.  
Aziraphale turned and frowned.  
"What do you mean, 'what kind'?"  
"If it's the exciting kind," Crowley shrugged innocently.  
Aziraphale stared.  
"All ice cream vans are -" he started.  
Oh, this adorable, innocent creature was going to be the death of Crowley.  
"I meant if it's the kind that peddles drugs!" Crowley interrupted him impatiently, but slightly snickering.   
Both Aziraphale and the guy in the ice cream van glared at him.  
"You horrid, cynical beast!" Aziraphale said disdainfully.   
"Coming from you, I'll take it as a compliment," Crowley cackled. "What do you want?"  
"I can pay for my own ice cream!" Aziraphale bickered. "And yours too, I guess. I don't think the poor man wants your money at this stage."   
The guy did look pretty miffed, Crowley had to admit.  
"Fine, mine's an ice lolly," he said, leaning his back against the van and popping one foot up against the wheel, arms crossed over his chest.   
"Which is a euphemism for what?" Aziraphale grumbled, before nonetheless ordering it, exchanging commiserating looks with the ice cream vendor.  
"Nothing, as far as I'm aware," Crowley said, nothing short of delighted at having ruffled Aziraphale's feathers. If delighted was his best look, puffed-up and huffy was a strong second.   
"You've probably just fallen out of touch with the youth in your old age," Aziraphale shot back primly, accepting Crowley's ice lolly and his own 99 in a cup and passing the ice lolly on.    
Crowley was about to reply that at least he had not lost touch as far back as the 1950's when Aziraphale carefully and properly took a spoonful of ice cream while staring straight at Crowley with a petulant gleam in his eyes. Crowley resigned himself to glaring the best he knew how and ripping the wrapping off his lolly with more force than strictly necessary, only aiming halfheartedly at the bin and missing.  
Aziraphale tutted and plucked the wrapper up off the ground to properly dispose of it.   
"Can't take you anywhere," he scolded before tugging back into his 99.   
"No. No, you can't," Crowley said gleefully, before giving his lolly a long lick. _But you did anyway, and it's actually getting pretty nice, at last.  
_ Aziraphale screamed and jumped back, startling several people around them.  
Crowley panicked a bit, tastebuds slightly stuck to the frozen surface of the lolly.  
"Whah? Whah'sh wong?" he tried to ask before being able to free his tongue.  
"Your tongue!" Aziraphale squeaked, pointing at Crowley's face, as if there was any doubt where his tongue might be located.  
Crowley blinked, then smirked and stuck his tongue out. Wiggled the split tips up and down, out of sync. Aziraphale clutched his cup of ice cream and slowly walked closer.  
"What in the World?" he muttered, staring at Crowley's tongue. "H-how does that happen? First your eyes, now this!" He looked up at Crowley's eyes, or rather, sunglasses. "Anything else on you that isn't... functioning normally?"  
"I have an usually high stamina," Crowley started conversationally but then could not hold back a chortle. "Nah, this ain't like the eyes. The eyes were homegrown, this -" He stuck his tongue out again, let one tip cross over the other. "- iph ftore bawd."  
Aziraphale stared like Crowley was barking mad.  
"You paid for that? You can pay for that??" he sputtered.  
Crowley shrugged, licked some melted ice off his lolly before his hand got too sticky.  
"Yeah," he said casually.   
"Why the Hell would you do that?!" Aziraphale asked, horrified, sounding like a parent asking their child what had possessed them to waterboard their younger sibling in the toilet.  
Crowley continued the valiant struggle to keep his hand free of melted ice lolly.  
"Ask me when I was in my late twenties," he said in between licks. "Comes in handy though. Or oral, I suppose, would be more correct," he finished sneakily with a little smile before giving his lolly an extra long, thorough suck.   
Aziraphale's eyes went round. He swallowed hard and looked away.   
"Well, all the best to you, then..." he mumbled. He distractedly helped himself to another couple of spoonfuls of 99, looking at anything but Crowley, who in turn looked at nothing but Aziraphale who had gone red about the ears.  
 _Maybe a little much there Crowley, seriously, can you actually not help yourself??_   
He wasm however, distracted from his self-scolding by the sticky feeling of melted ice lolly dripping down his wrist.  
"Oh for fuck's sake!"  
Aziraphale pursed his lips and did that annoying, self-satisfied little wiggle of his as he stood there with his neat little cup and spoon.   
"Bah!" Crowley gave up on his lolly and dumped it in a nearby bin. "Could never eat them fast enough when I was a kid. Always thought it would get better when I got older..."  
Aziraphale chuckled lightly.   
"Some things are just hard no matter how old you are," he said. An awkward beat passed while the unintentional implications hung in the air. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief for Crowley.   
Crowley just grumbled and tried to clean himself up. Then he lit up.  
"Eey! Shooting gallery" He nudged Aziraphale with an elbow, while drying his hands. "How's your aim?"   
Aziraphale snorted.  
"How's yours?" he asked.   
"Couldn't hit an elephant from 5 feet," Crowley said with bravado. "Especially since the gun would probably get stuck to my fingers right now..!"  
"Same," Aziraphale sniffed. "Now, regular old balls on the other hand..!"   
He drifted further down the row to the next tent; A standard target stall with a couple of large containers with bullseyes on them with increasing score values and holes of diminishing sizes the closer you got to the centre. The hole in the centre was probably too small to even fit the ball through it, if Crowley knew anything about life.  
"5 balls, 2 quid??" he said with shock. "Christ, everything's gone up since we were kids."   
Aziraphale hummed something, obviously not paying Crowley any mind, sorting through loose change from his coin purse.   
"5 balls, please!" he announced excitedly, slamming a handful of coins down on the counter. The dodgy-looking guy in the tent handed him a basket with five scratched-up balls and scraped up the change.   
"Top shelf takes 100 points, middle takes 50, bottom takes 10," he announced unenthusiastically, stepping aside to fiddle with a money box.   
"Make a wish," Aziraphale said, beaming at Crowley. "Anything you'd like?"  
Crowley let his eyes wander over the cheap stuffed toys that lined the sides of the tent.   
"Pretty sure I'd get bedbugs if I brought any of those monstrosities into my house," he said with a grimace.   
A little girl of about 3 with her curly hair in pigtails snuck up to the counter and gripped the edge of it, standing on her tip-toes, to try to peer over.  
"Oh! Hello, Poppy! Run away, have you?" Aziraphale said merrily.   
The girl grinned and giggled.   
"You winning a toy?" she said, peering up the stuffed animals.   
"I was about to! Anything you reckon I should go for?"   
Stubby little fingers immediately pointed up at a tiger on the middle row.   
"That looks nice, does it?" Aziraphale asked sneakily. The little girl nodded, eagerly.  
Crowley smirked. Shameless, greedy little monster...   
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"I haven't made you any promises," he sternly pointed out, raising a finger. "But! Let's see what we can do..."  
The little girl tottered over to Crowley and held up her hands.   
"Up, please."  
"Yes, Crowley. Up," Aziraphale admonished, face too bloody serious for Crowley to even attempt to deal with it.   
Crowley struggled with the tote bag - that he was apparently _still_ carrying?? - and grabbed the girl under the arms to sit her on the counter so she could better see, counting his lucky stars when his sticky fingers did not glue themselves to the armpits of her t-shirt. He was fully ready to witness a cruel lesson in the disappointments here in life, but then Aziraphale's scrunched up his nose and put the first ball safely in the middle hole worth ten points. Poppy cheered, bouncing on the counter. Crowley stared.   
"Lucky start," he said, taken back.   
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air and sent another ball flying. Ten points... And after a moments careful aiming, yet another ten.   
"Lucky middle," Crowley heckled.  
Aziraphale looked vexed. Poppy giggled.  
"Lucky end!" she said, clapping her hands.   
Aziraphale smiled at her.  
"At least someone believes in me," he said warmly before shooting Crowley a dirty look.   
"Prove me wrong," Crowley said smoothly, holding up his hands.   
Aziraphale apparently took him on his word and did just that. Barely believing his eyes Crowley hauled Poppy off the counter and onto the ground. Aziraphale was just about to hand over the dubious tiger plushy when a voice called out.  
"Poppy! There you are!" A woman walked over, knot-braid tote, containing what looked to be jam jars, in hand. Crowley reckoned she had been at the cable net meeting. "Grifting off Father A again, are you?" she scolded her daughter mildly. Poppy grinned and hugged her tiger.   
"He won this!" she said excitedly, holding the tiger up to her mother.   
Aziraphale beamed and knocked the back of a hand against Crowley's arm.  
"Crowley. Have you been introduced to Isla yet?"   
Crowley stuck out a hand.  
"No. And once again, it's a damn pity. Is there a WI around here that I can join?"  
Isla rearranged her tote bag and Poppy who was now clinging to her hand and managed a handshake, ignoring Crowley's flirtations.  
"Isla Addington." She looked down at Poppy and tutted - and maybe rubbed her now slightly sticky hand on her trousers. "How much did she skin you for?" she asked Aziraphale, grabbling for what Crowley assumed would be her wallet, but Aziraphale waved her off.  
"Nothing, beyond a stuffed toy that wouldn't have matched my curtains anyway," he said.   
"Did you at least thank him??" Irma asked.   
"Than' you, Fath' A," Poppy cooed, nose buried in her plushie.   
"Not at all, sweetie," Aziraphale smiled.   
"Have you by any chance seen Pippin?" Irma asked, looking around.   
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"I don't believe so, no."  
"So They haven't tried to hide behind you yet?" Irma said with a smirk. "Well, at least They can't be in too much trouble then... Come on, Poppy," She tugged her toddler along. "Let's go see if we can find your sister so you can show her your tiger."   
"Isla is Pepper's mother," Aziraphale informed Crowley as they continued their stroll.   
"And Pippin's?" Crowley half-asked.  
Aziraphale waved a hand.  
"Same thing."  
Crowley gawked.  
"She named her daughter Pippin??"  
Aziraphale checked over his shoulder.  
"I'm only telling you this because I know you'll forget, but Pepper's name is actually Pippin Galadriel Moonchild,"  
Crowley's brows nearly flew off his forehead.  
"What kinda hippie nut job -"  
"Isla," Aziraphale interrupted. "And Pepper's father, I suppose, I wouldn't know."  
Crowley smirked.   
"Pardon my forwardness, but Pepper and... Polly -?"  
"Poppy,"  
"Yeah, the little grifty one, with the pig tails - and the tiger, I guess - they don't have the same dad, do they?"   
Aziraphale smiled and shook his head.   
"Indeed not. Poppy's a donor child," he said clasping his hands behind his back. "Pepper came about when Isla decided, after taking her GCSE's, that she needed to 'be free from the establishment' - and her parents - and 'realise her true self' and 'return to nature'... over the course of about 18 months in a cheap tent in a field in Wales," he continued, quirking one brow rather sceptically. "When she finally had enough of that, she showed up at her grandparents' house, properly sick and tired of anything more natural than a mowed lawn and with Pepper in her arms. Bit of a surprise to everyone, but it all turned out quite nicely I think. Ben and Muriel sure didn't seem bothered once the initial shock had evaporated."  
Crowley hummed.  
"Couldn't run home to mum and dad?" he asked.  
Aziraphale snorted a laugh.   
"I gather they weren't really on speaking terms at the time, " he said, stopping at a stall with a big, stupid plywood bee above it, and having a gander at the jars on display. "Or rather - Isla wasn't on speaking terms with them. Youthful stubbornness, I suppose. Admitting failure was probably too much for her at the time." He accepted a lolly stick dipped in honey and hummed in delight as he put it in his mouth. "She came around after a couple of years, when she was elbows deep in her sociology class and had something to show for it all. They're not disagreeable people, just... very different from what Isla dreamt of being, I guess." He handed over an offensive number of bills and squirrel a jar of honey away in the tote bag, which was slowly starting to give in the seams.   
"She's lucky she had anyone to run to," Crowley said. He could not imagine running to his own family for anything in the World, except, perhaps, to torch their homes. "So that explains the first kid, where'd the wee'un come from?" he asked. "She didn't get drunk at the office Christmas party and have unprotected hanky-panky with a test tube."   
Aziraphale looked unsure if he should laugh or groan in frustration at that particular image.  
"I think she felt the need to... prove that she could actually parent, not just count on her grandparents to take the brunt of it," he said after shaking off his dismay. "Goodness knows she was running herself ragged, between college, a part-time job and trying to be there for Pepper. Not that Pepper was lacking in love, living next door to her grandparents, and she adores her mother, but... I suppose there's something to be said about trying to reject everything you came from and then ending up depending completely on it for another five years? She wanted to raise a kid entirely on her own terms, I guess?"  
Crowley shrugged and nodded.   
"Cute kid," he admitted.  
"Oh, Poppy's a little thief!" Aziraphale crowed. "Stealing hearts wherever she goes."  
"Who's a thief?" Anathema asked.  
Both men jumped. They had not realised how far they had walked as they chatted. They had reached Anathema's stall which showed off a downscaled selection of everything her shop usually contained.   
"You're running low on flowers, old man," Anathema continued, nodding at the self-serve box.   
There were indeed only four or five small bouquets left int he buckets inside.  
Crowley groaned.  
"I can't be bothered to re-stock it..." he moaned. "And I don't know where Platypus has gone off to... Blerh. Not gonna happen. Just let it sell out, fuck it." He waved a dismissive hand at the  
box. "How's the tourist trap?" he instead asked Anathema who glowered at him.   
"It's going well. Pretty crystals are always a hit with kids. Been a bit slow on the readings though... I don't suppose either of you would like one, since you both think it's bollocks." She shot Aziraphale a particularly stern and disappointed look.   
"The last one you gave me was horse shite anyway," Crowley said, to try and give the squirming Aziraphale a bit of respite. "No hot, willing recluses have come my way."   
"That's not what the Hermit mea - oh, why do I bother," Anathema sighed, rolling her eyes. "Y'know, I've been thinking about it. Maybe we misinterpreted it. Maybe it wasn't describing the guy, maybe it was just trying to tell you to not get your hopes you, 'cos you won't be getting none."   
Crowley wanted to vehemently defend himself and his honour as a over-sexed tart, but he was cut off by Aziraphale clicking his tongue.   
"Oh, really now. Why is it that every single conversation we have with anyone today ends up leading to your pants??" the blonde groused.   
"I guess everyone really, really wants to talk about my pants," he shot back.   
He wondered briefly perhaps that had been a little too forward - since when had he worried about that sort of thing?? - but Aziraphale eyes narrowed and his chest puffed up in what was clearly preparation for an acidic comeback to end all acidic comebacks when there was a shout;  
"You -!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who left a comment on the old, now deleted, version; your comments were much appreciated <3


	20. Chapter 20

Aziraphale spun on the spot. About a hundred feet away stood Claude, Mavis' father, very visibly seven sheets to the wind, pointing furiously at... Aziraphale.  
"M-me?"   
"You!!"  
People were starting to stare. If this was headed the way Aziraphale feared it was, this was hardly the place.  
"Yes, alright. 'Me'," he said impatiently, straightening his back as Claude - who had roughly a good six inches of height and about 5 stone on Aziraphale in size - stomped closer, face beet red and eyes blood shot. "Claude, really, you're drunk -"  
"You did that!!" Claude bellowed, dangerously close now. "Our little girl -!!"  
" _Claude!_ This is hardly the time and place -"  
Claude seemed less inclined to listen. He got right up to Aziraphale, glaring down at him with blood-shot eyes.  
"YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID -!!"  
"I do, Claude, but as _you_ well know, I couldn't possibly discuss anything said in confiden - eep!"  
Claude grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels and backed him up against Anathema's shop.   
"Woah, woah, woah -" A bony arm suddenly inserted itself between Aziraphale and Claude, grappling at Claude's wrists. "pick at someone your own bloody size, you - hngk!"   
Crowley had tried to shoulder his way between the other two men, but Claude was having one of it; He had simply let go of Aziraphale and instead grabbed Crowley by the front of his shirt, knocking the air out of the ginger in process, and pushed him away, hard, sending him sprawling on the ground and Aziraphale's tote bag - was Crowley still carrying that? Goodness! - flying, its contents spilling all over the ground. Then he rounded on Aziraphale again.  
"You suggested -!!" he started.   
Aziraphale stared at Crowley as the redhead curled up on the ground with a hiss. For the second time that day, he felt something akin to a pencil snapping somewhere in his mind, but a different kind of pencil this time.   
"I am at no liberty to discuss these things," he said loudly, gritting his teeth. "least of all with drunken brawlers in full public! Now if you'll excuse me -" He tried to push away from Claude to go help Anathema who, with the help of Arthur Young, was now trying to pull Crowley up off the ground which seemed to be proving difficult.  
"You'll be paying for what you've -!"  
"CLAUDE!"  
Over Claude's shoulder, Aziraphale watched Deidre and Claude's wife, Carol, come hasting down the path. He also became aware everyone around was staring at the absolute scene they were  
all making, including a kid in the Postman Pat ride about 20 feet away as the car whirred and played its tune.   
"WHAT IN THE _WORLD_?!"   
No amount of alcohol or rage could apparently raise enough piss and vinegar in Claude to disregard his wife's furious voice. He seemed to shrink several inches. The danger of a right pummeling seemingly over, Aziraphale was unable to hold back a dismayed huff as he side-stepped Claude, leaving him to his fuming wife, and instead went to help Arthur Young who were having little to no luck putting Crowley to rights while Deidre gathered up the spilled goods and stuffed them back into the bag. Aziraphale batted Anathema away and shouldered his way under Crowley's arm without so much as a 'may I', dragging the redhead up.   
"Is it your hip, dear boy?" he asked concernedly.   
Crowley hissed.  
"Just an unlucky landing," he ground out.   
"Yet another one," Aziraphale noted dryly.  
"Should we go to A&E and have you looked at, pal?" Arthur suggested.   
Crowley shot him a look which, even hidden behind the dark glasses, seemed to suggest 'I don't bloody know you. Why are you talking to me?'  
"Ah, yes, uh - Crowley. This is Arthur," Aziraphale explained. "Arthur Young. Deidre's husband, you know? I don't know if you've met?"  
"Nope," Crowley ground out, fairly clinging to Aziraphale's side. "Yet another local lad who doesn't spoil his pretty missus as much as he should, if he knew what's good for him."  
Aziraphale shot Arthur a bit of an apologetic look, but Arthur half-shrugged.   
"Can we go?" Crowley sneered, clearly uncomfortable while behind them, Claude was being read the riot act by his wife.  
"Assaulting Father A! We can never show our faces at the church again!"  
"Absolutely!" Aziraphale said loudly, hoisting Crowley a bit further up his shoulder and grabbing his tote bag from Deidre with the other. He took a small step forward and Crowley attempted to follow suit, cursing and growling. "Maybe try hopping on one leg, my dear?"   
"Try fucking off..!" Crowley hissed as his hip bucked violently.  
"Are you sure you don't want another hand?" Anathema offered, trailing up to Crowley's left side and reaching for his arm.  
Crowley tried to yank himself out of her reach and nearly took Aziraphale with him in the resulting near-fall.   
"Don't touch me right now, 'Nathema, I swear..!"   
"Are you sure, Father -" Arthur started unsurely, also following them.   
Aziraphale groaned.  
"Everyone! Out of my way!"   
He resolutely held onto Crowley and hauled off with him. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before them, everyone staring, Claude's wife still shouting in the background.   
"Could we walk a little slower?" Crowley half-sobbed.  
"Oh, will you stop whinging!" Aziraphale huffed. Crowley was deceptively heavy, despite having as much padding on him as a wire coat hanger. "And pulling on my clothes! I can barely  
breathe!"   
"I can barely walk!"

By what had to be an actual miracle they made it out of the market, past the Historical Society's stall, a popcorn seller, three girl guides who offered to perform CPR on Crowley - an offer which Aziraphale had kindly but quite quickly refused while Crowley looked ready to maim the twelve-year-olds - and, somewhat disappointingly, a stand selling handmade boiled sweets.  
"You wanna make a stop?" Crowley asked, as he limped along, his right leg nearly caving under him every time he tried to put his weight on it.  
"And how the dickens do you suggest I manage that?" Aziraphale huffed as he fought to keep the ginger upright. "Now - when we get there, I take it you'll be wanting a bag of something frozen? I believe I still have one particular bag of beans somewhere at the back of the freezer for such occasions."  
" _You_ have?" Crowley asked as they exited the market. "Wait - Angel, you're going the wrong way..!"  
"As if I'm dragging you all the way back out to your place," Aziraphale tutted, easily manhandling the protesting Crowley along towards the rectory.  
"You only have to drag me to the shop, my car's in the back, I can see myself home, I don't need -"  
"What you need is a lie-down as soon as, and something cold on the injury," Aziraphale said sternly as they crossed the street.  
"I'd rather just go home and curl up with my electric blanket..." Crowley moped. "while I search for the number for the nearest physiotherapist."  
"It's about a half hour drive," Aziraphale said. "I'll find the details for you in the phone book." He pursed his lips. "Although I am afraid I can't offer you an electric blanket, I can do you a nice, large hot water bottle. Surely that'll do the trick just as well. I'm making myself a cup of tea anyway, it'll be no trouble at all."  
"Ah, yeah..." Crowley muttered as he wobbled his way up the front steps of Aziraphale's house. "I was meant to buy you a cuppa..."  
"Yes... Opted to go and get yourself injured instead, bravo," Aziraphale said primly, with no real meaning behind the words as he carefully loaded Crowley onto the sofa.   
"Oi! I was trying to save you! From - whoever the fuck that was..." Crowley argued. "Who was that anyway??" he continued, lolling his head about to watch Aziraphale change into his slippers.  
Aziraphale thrust out his jaw and stuck his nose in the air.   
"Mavis' father..." he said quietly.  
"Angel. Are you telling me," Crowley said slowly, lowly, a little dangerously. "that I'm lying here, with a busted hip, like an old lady, because you support abortions..?"  
"No," Aziraphale replied, tottering off the kitchen, very throughly not looking at Crowley. "You're lying there with a busted hip because you just had to try to save me. And now I have to go  
about feeling very much guilty for all this pain and suffering, all because you couldn't resist playing hero." He stuck his head out of the kitchen door and shot Crowley the most blameful look he could muster. "Hardly fair at all, do you think?"  
Crowley glared.  
"Ach! Pfft! Fine! I won't try saving you again! Promise! Cross my heart!" he sputtered, crossing his arms and sinking into the worn sofa cushions, simmering.   
"Good," Aziraphale said briskly, some minutes later, as he returned from the kitchen with a filled hot water bottle - in a tartan knit casing, which Marjorie had made for him, of course - and held it out towards Crowley who snatched it and gingerly pressed it against his hip. "I would hate to be the cause of anymore injuries."   
Crowley sighed and looked marginally less uncomfortable.   
"Oof, yes, that's the spot..." he groaned in a positively pornographic voice, lolling his head to one side with a grimace that fell somewhere in the middle between pain and ecstasy.   
Aziraphale wished he would have actually set a cup of tea brewing while he was in the kitchen, so he would have had an excuse to scurry off, but alas.   
"We... uh. Ahem. We forgot to feed the sheep..." he said, to no one in particular.   
Crowley actually snickered. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair with his free hand and peered up at Aziraphale with one large, golden eye.  
"Yeah, seeing Postman Pat tucking his willy back in his khakis knocked it out of our minds, I guess" he said with a grin. "The parish secretary, caught in the shrubbery..!"  
"They are married," Aziraphale amended, giggling. "And his name's Leslie."  
"They're into fucking in bushes, is what they are," Crowley countered, sending Aziraphale into a peal of horrified laughter.   
"Oh, do be good, what's the harm, no one saw," Aziraphale tutted, still smirking.   
"We damn nearly did," Crowley said, shifting slightly. Once he was done groaning with discomfort, he snickered. "Those are some very tasteful boxers Postman Pat was putting away there, by the way."  
"Oh! Pfft!" Aziraphale waved him off and returned to the kitchen to actually make himself that cup of tea, still chuckling.   
"By the way!" Crowley called from the sofa. "What in tarnation is going on with your aim??"  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"My aim?"   
"Yeah! Winning that cuddly tiger. What the fuck was that?"  
"What do you mean 'what was that'?" Aziraphale asked. "I just... got the balls in the holes?"  
"Yeah, see," Crowley said. "normal folks don't just do that. They get ripped off at those tents. You had the bloke nearly crying."  
Aziraphale returned with a cup of tea, lightly bobbing the tea bag up and down.   
"I did not."  
"Did you too. Question is _how_??" Crowley shifted the hot water bottle about a bit and continued; "You never struck me as the school jock."  
Aziraphale snorted, dragging a dining chair over to the sofa in order to take a seat with his tea and toe off his slippers before carefully resting his feet beside Crowley's on the sofa.  
"I can assure you I wasn't," he said quietly.   
Silence fell for a minute. Aziraphale neatly pulled the tea bag out of the cup and set it on the saucer and took a sip. As he looked up, he found Crowley watching him intently.   
"So," Aziraphale said, wishing to waft away that curious gaze. _Changing the topic. Now._ "I've been meaning to ask... I noticed, a fair while back now, obviously, that there's a photograph of a snake in your wallet... How come?"  
"Oh, that," Crowley said with as much of a shrug as he could manage, sprawled out over the lumpy throw pillows as he was. "Eh, call it sentimentality," he said. "It's my ex-wife." He snickered  
as Aziraphale shot him a deadpan look. "Nah, it's George."   
"George?" Aziraphale repeated. "George the snake?"  
"George the Jamaican boa," Crowley elaborated.  
"You keep a pet snake?" Aziraphale asked. "That's... nice, I suppose. But I don't recall seeing a seven foot bright yellow noodle anywhere when -" _When I went to your house and we got drunk and kissed and -  
_ Perhaps talking about school would be the preferable option after all.   
Crowley snorted.   
"We haven't spoken much lately. George moved out about 15 years ago."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Ah."  
"Yeah." Crowley shrugged again. "He was cute 'n all but... he became a bit of a hassle. Grew too big. And then I found out he was endangered and I wasn't even allowed to have him in the first place, and I couldn't be arsed with some massive fine or whatever, so I passed the monkey on to the London Zoo. Played proper dumb, said I never realised he was illegal and just wanted rid of him 'cos of his size. They took him in, set him up with an agreeable lady snake, I guess. Got a notice with a photo about a year later, telling me the zoo had had little Georges."  
Aziraphale pouted in thought.   
"Doesn't sound like a terrible life for a snake."  
Crowley hummed.  
"Nah, he did alright for himself. And the species, I guess."  
"And you keep a picture of him in your wallet... This terrible, illegal bother of a snake," Aziraphale noted.  
"Hey, I keep hanging out with you," Crowley teased. "I guess I like a challenge."  
"I'm not an endangered, illegally obtained specimen!" Aziraphale argued. Although, perhaps it could be argued that making friends with a priest and then inviting him home for a snog was  
somewhat similar...  
"Really?" Crowley asked smoothly. "Strikes me that you're a pretty rare breed."   
Deafening silence.  
"I mean, you're a priest who just nearly got beaten up at the village fair 'cos you suggested to a girl she should terminate a pregnancy," he elaborated quickly, narrowly avoiding choking on  
his own tongue.  
 _'Strikes me you're a pretty rare beed'. Ew, Crowley, ew!   
_"I suppose I have caused a bit of a bother," Aziraphale agreed, nodding at the hot water bottle. "Getting your hip messed up like that."  
"Don't fret over it," Crowley said with a dismissive wave. "It's just the bump. Got absolutely no padding on me. Ex-wife used to say I'd've burned the house down if I'd been a live wire. Zero  
insulation."  
Aziraphale took another long sip of his tea.  
"You were actually married then?" he inquired. He was unsure how he felt about that. Happy, he supposed, potentially, that Crowley had had that sort of thing in his life. Also possibly sad  
that it had come to an end. Although... No. No 'although'. It was always a sad thing when a marriage dissolved. Always."And it came to an end. I'm sorry to hear that."  
Crowley wrinkled his nose.   
"Nah. Don't be. We had a good ride, but... it had sorta... run its course? No point in lingering past the use by date."  
"Still," Aziraphale argued. "You got married. So there must, at least at some point, have been a dream of... married life. No one get's married thinking 'let's see how long it lasts'."   
Crowley made a noise.  
"Eh. Yeah, I guess not, but it was for the best, really."  
"Soured beyond repair?" Aziraphale asked, definitely feeling a a twinge of sympathetic sadness now.   
Crowley raised a brow as if he was not quite sure why they were having that particular conversation, but then seemed to decide he might as well indulge Aziraphale.  
"Nah just... came apart at the seams," he said. "Not that the seams were ever particularly tight, mind you, but... yeah."   
Aziraphale blinked.  
"I'm not even sure I know what that means..." he said, feeling quite silly.  
"Open. It was an open thing. Turned out not even the 'I do's' could put a stopper in the two biggest slappers in Greater London," Crowley said. He snorted dryly to himself. "We had fun though," he conceded. "We sure did..."  
An open marriage. That made sense, Aziraphale supposed. Crowley was, continuously, an, objectively, highly attractive man and surely whatever woman he had decided was worth marrying would have matched that. The redhead had been tight-fisted with the details, but one thing was clear about him; he was not short on money and Aziraphale had no trouble imagining some sort of photo model or well-groomed heiress on Crowley's arm. Surely the wife of an openly misbehaving sort of man like Crowley would have had to be equally as effortlessly scandalous. It made perfect sense that someone like Crowley, who was handsome enough that he would almost be justified in calling it a shame to not share himself with the World would marry a lady of a similar mindset.   
"Does it bother you?" Crowley asked slyly. Trouble-stirrlingly.  
Why would Aziraphale be bothered that Crowley had been married? What an idiotic question! Why would he even ask such a -  
"That I'm divorced," Crowley continued.  
Aziraphale most definitely did not sag with relief that he did not have to answer that other question that he had been expecting.  
"I reserve the right to doubt that it was a marriage entered into before the eyes of the Lord, in his Church," he said dryly.  
Crowley smirked.  
"The right is yours to keep."  
"Then it's entirely your own problem," Aziraphale shrugged. "As much as I do find it a sad thing to see a committed relationship crumble, I'm not here to tell you what my rule book says when you weren't even attempting to play by it in the first place."  
" _Your rule book_. Do you even know where you've put that bloody thing?" Crowley snorted. "If you played by that, I wouldn't be lying here like this."  
He was right in so many ways, both the immediately obvious - and a bit embarrassing, it had to be said - and the more... intricate ones, the messy ones behind the scenes. Aziraphale huffed and sputtered, wanted to protest and came up with nothing.  
"And are you really going to tell me you haven't peddled a few sly annulments over the years?" Crowley continued, an approving grin on his face.  
Aziraphale shrugged. Shook his head and wrinkled his nose, _still_ coming up with nothing.  
Crowley smirked, making himself and little more comfortable on the sofa, still pressing the water bottle to his hip.  
"She'd have liked you," he said. "The ex-missus."  
Aziraphale was unsure if the approval of a person who had been married to Crowley was something he desired.   
"How did you meet?" he asked instead of sulking.   
Crowley snorted.  
"Oh, some bloke hired us both for the night. Got him dead drunk and scrammed with our money after a few hours."  
"She was an escort too, you mean?" Aziraphale asked.   
"Yeh. Poor broad, had a kid from a previous relationship and was struggling a bit. We were mates for years before we decided to give married life a shot... Not that it made much difference to how we did things, though..."  
"But it wasn't your cup of tea?" Aziraphale started bitterly. "Oh! Goodness!" he shot up, horrified, his bitter thoughts of _poor Crowley_ who got tired of being _married_ as well as sleeping around like nothing had happened interrupted. "Where are my manners! I haven't offered you anything!"   
"You got me a hot water bottle," Crowley tried.   
"Would you like a drink or something?" Aziraphale asked flustered. It was right sweltering out there, you must be parched!" He put his teacup on the seat of his chair.   
"I could go for a drink of water, I guess..." Crowley admitted.  
Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs.  
"I do also have a very nice bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice in the fridge, if you'd like," he offered.   
Crowley pursed his lips.  
"Yeah, g'won, give us one of those."  
Back in the kitchen, his embarrassment with his own poor hostmanship averted, the unbidden bitterness returned, leaving Aziraphale wondering to himself what on Earth suddenly had Crowley sharing like, while sober, even. He wondered if perhaps Crowley was trying to make some sort of point. Rub it in a little... that Aziraphale had had his chance, but had blown it. And that Crowley did not strictly _need_ Aziraphale, that he had been doing him... a kindness. That he, Crowley, could have his cake and eat it too, both a wife and every willing body in London at once.   
Aziraphale snorted to himself. If Crowley could have his pick, what had he been doing with Aziraphale anyway...   
He was in a considerably glummer mood when he returned with Crowley's orange juice.   
Crowley's left brow slowly wormed its way off his high forehead.  
"Something wrong?"  
"No. No, nothing," Aziraphale said, then quickly amended as he heard how distinctly not-alright he obviously sounded. "I mean, a fellow twice my size tried to beat me up, just earlier, but all in all, no, I'm quite fine."   
Crowley cocked his head.  
"Are you sure about that?" he asked, taking the glass of juice.   
Aziraphale swallowed.   
"What on Earth would I not be fine?" he asked, shuffling off, back to his chair. Crowley once again had a _past_. It did not matter. It should not have mattered last time and this time it for damned sure would not!   
"You tell me," Crowley muttered enigmatically against the rim of the glass.  
Aziraphale plucked his teacup back up and sat down again.  
"Yes, well..." He primly took a sip. Silence fell between them, a bit awkward, a bit vulnerable.   
"You don't have to stay here, you know," Crowley said into the quiet of the room. "I'll just hang out here until the water bottle gets cold and then I'll be on my way home. I won't nick anything or move your books. I promise."  
Aziraphale tutted.   
"I didn't think you would. It just hardly seems fair to leave you lying here alone. You did try to stop Claude from punching a hole in me."  
Crowley shrugged.   
"Sure." He slipped a hand under the hot water bottle and rubbed at his hip a little.  
Aziraphale emptied his teacup.   
"Is it terribly sore?" he tutted. "I really am sorry to have caused that."  
"Hey. I told you to stop fussing. Besides, Mable needed that abortion," Crowley shrugged. Then he frowned to himself. "Will she be alright, d'you think?"  
Aziraphale snorted dryly, although Crowley's perspective on the matter did warm his heart. That complicated, bloody menace with all his many intricate facets...  
"As previously demonstrated, the only thing Claude truly fears is his wife," he said She'll have his guts for garters at this point. Mavis will be fine."  
Crowley nodded.  
"Catholic families, eh?" he noted. "If that'd been my sister. Sheesh."  
Aziraphale bit his lip.  
"Yes. Indeed. Those..." he muttered.  
"And Catholic gossip, if I know anything," Crowley continued, shooting a glance towards the village green through the window. "Will it be out all over the village by this time tomorrow, do you think?"   
Aziraphale hummed.  
"We shall have to wait and see, I suppose," he said sadly. He clicked his tongue. "Claude, you stupid, _stupid_ man..!"  
Crowley elbowed his way into a sitting position with a hiss of pain.  
Aziraphale tutted sympathetically at him. Then he too cast a glance out the window.   
"I think we should call it a day," he said, suddenly feeling very tired and unwilling to face the music. "let the ballyhoo mind itself and get a drink. We were in a _brawl_ just now. We deserve a stiff whiskey." He shot Crowley a stern look. " _If_ you can behave yourself, that is."  
For a long moment they stared at each other, Crowley's face emotionless, beyond a faint touch of disbelief. Then Aziraphale realised what he had just said.  
"I meant if you promise not to get blind drunk and try to walk with your poor hip!" he sputtered. "Not -"  
Crowley snickered.  
"Yeah, yeah, a'ight," he said, draining his juice and holding out the glass towards Aziraphale. "None taken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I'm behind schedule once again (but at least I'm still posting. Right? Right??). I took last week off as self-care. This ch may not be the most interesting but the next one will be quite the thing (and probably a proper longboi too, so please hang in there)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ch contains some less pleasant recollections. Nothing overly explicit, but foretold is forewarned, okay lovelies?

"I mean, for fuck's sake, going around shouting about it, pissed, at the village fair - being a dad isn't that difficult, is all I'm saying!" Crowley ranted.  
He had been quite surprised when Aziraphale suggested breaking out the alcohol - so early in the afternoon too - having figured the blond would want to be more careful after... what had happened last. But they had started out slow with just one, well-paced whiskey, during which Aziraphale had livened up and Crowley's hip had somewhat calmed down. As they had finally drained their glasses, Aziraphale had decided that what they needed was some beans on toast as a late lunch. While the beans warmed up in a pot and they both smoked a cigarette while hanging halfway out through the kitchen window, Aziraphale had another disbelieving, and still somewhat horrified, look at Crowley's tongue. while Crowley let it be known that he hated beans with a passion. In the end he dutifully munched up two whole slices of toast with marmite to at least try to look like he was cooperating in what he presumed was a plot on Aziraphale's part to mop up the alcohol.  
Now they were back on the sofa, each with their third glass of wine in hand while the market day continued to bustle about outside, the occasional shout or honking of a car horn in the church parking lot faintly reaching them through the closed windows. Conversation had circled back to the topic of Claude and Mavis, Crowley in a much more salty sort of mood since his hip had stopped hurting quite so badly. The hot water bottle had long-since cooled and ha slipped onto the floor where one of Crowley's socked feet had accidentally kicked it under the sofa. The redhead had toed off this shoes, sending them flying in the general direction of the front door, revealing a pair of ridiculous little socks, designed to not show over the top of his shoes.  
"Poor broad. Growing up with a dad like that..."  
Aziraphale hummed.  
"Can be tricky..." he admitted. "Mind you, I don't think parenting is easy either," he continued, not really meaning to defend Claude, but still - credit where credit was due. "Depending on the child, of course, but nonetheless..."  
"It's really not, I promise you," Crowley said sagely.  
Aziraphale hummed. He might regret asking, which was ridiculous in so many ways and on so many levels, so he asked anyway;  
"Did you have any children, you and your wife? Or was it just that one she already had?"  
Crowley shook his head, while draining his glass.  
"Nah, nah, don't worry, one less threat onto the World, my shots are as blank as paper," he said.  
"Probably all those uncomfortable-looking trousers of yours," Aziraphale deadpanned.  
"Probably," Crowley said merrily. He shrugged. "Missus wanted to try for another, but nothing happened, so I got checked. Nothing. Not a one. Ghost town in my pants."  
"Was that why you divorced?" Aziraphale inquired. He was unsure why he wanted to know all the details so badly. Crowley had said they had just grown apart, so what was Aziraphale even trying to find out? If they still saw each other? If Crowley... missed that life? That he had been the happiest ever, living a life that was in every way the polar opposite of Aziraphale...  
Crowley snorted.  
"Nah. She already had Eric. We made do, as they say. Sweet kid. Easy or whatever you call it," he shrugged. "Did his homework when you told him to, mostly. Never did his maths, though. Hated maths."  
Aziraphale made a derisive noise.  
"Can't blame him," he muttered into his glass. "Does my bloody head in..."  
"Oh really?" Crowley drained his glass. "I'd have thought you'd've been a right little star pupil, all straight A's and ten GCSE's."  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"I haven't a single GCSE," he said, with surprise.  
He was not alone in looking surprised. Crowley stared.  
"You don't have - wha'?? You went to seminary! That's uni level, right?? You need GCSE's for that!"  
"When I did my exams they were only CSE's," Aziraphale explained.  
Crowley gawped even more.  
"HOW OLD ARE YOU?? A HUNDRED?!"  
"We were the last year to do CSE's, will you stop that," Aziraphale huffed.  
Crowley blew a long wet raspberry. Then he got thoughtful.  
"So you're... year of... '76?" he asked confusedly.  
"'I'm year of 87!" Aziraphale puffed up, glaring death at Crowley.  
Crowley laughed, dropping onto his side on the sofa and held up his hands in defense.  
"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm sorry, seriously, I wasn't even pissin' around that much, I just honestly don't know when they got rid of those!" He tried to swing his legs over the arm of the sofa, but his hip seemed to give him trouble. He stiffly managed after a moments struggle, still chuckling to himself.  
"Now who's old?" Aziraphale said primly, to try and compensate for his abject concern that Crowley might have gotten seriously injured while trying to defend him.  
"I'm 36!" Crowley insisted through gritted teeth.  
"You're full of it," Aziraphale sighed at the ceiling, shaking his head. He pursed his lips in thought. "So you must be younger than me..." he concluded. "Since you think CSE's are for old people..."  
"Angel, people out in space can tell from all the way up there that I'm younger than you," Crowley shot back.  
Aziraphale ignored him.  
"45."  
"Pardon?"  
"I only just turned 47. You're 45."  
"How dare."  
"Hm..." Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at Crowley. "Alright... younger than that - if you say '36', so help me the Lord - let's see... 40?"  
Crowley said nothing, just folded his arms over his chest and scoffed.  
Aziraphale smirked.  
"No defense this time? Older than that, then." He grinned at the sulking ginger. "So let's just move back up, shall we?" he asked smugly. "41? 42?"  
Crowley turned his head away and glared resolutely into the back of the sofa.  
"44?" Aziraphale tried next.  
The redhead tensed up and snapped his head around.  
"You missed one."  
"You're 44."  
"Prove it!"  
"It says your date of birth on driver's license. Which you keep in your wallet, just opposite the photo of George."  
Crowley glared.  
"You bastard. You absolute piece of shit," he sneered, while Aziraphale delightedly watched him fight back a grin. "I want to say that I'm never letting you into any of my stuff again, but you'd just poke your nose in uninvited anyway, wouldn't you?" Crowley continued, the corners of his mouth still twitching.  
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"I would never!"  
"You would too!" Crowley bickered. "Bet you peeked at someone else's answers for your exams," he heckled.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Believe me when I say I didn't," he said snootily. "Neither on my CSE's or any of my O-levels." He had been in no fit state to look anything but straight ahead when he took those tests. "How about you?" he asked absentmindedly to distract himself from that particular thought.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Me? You're joking right?"  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"Oh." Why had he asked Crowley that?? "Oh, yes no, well - you never know, do you? Perhaps you'd gone back later -"  
Crowley looked at Aziraphale like he was daft.  
"Why would I do that?"  
There was something a little edgy in his voice, but Aziraphale had no sense of self-preservation, apparently, so he bravely continued;  
"You never now... Sometimes when people get older -"  
"They realise that they were wrong?" Crowley asked acidly. "That they should've just done better the first time around and not wasted everyone's time?"  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"No, no, that's not -"  
"And how exactly would you suggest I go about it anyway, hm?" Crowley continued, swinging himself around so both his feet were on the floor. He gripped the edge of the sofa seat with both hands.  
"Th-there are ways," Aziraphale stammered, all the while asking himself why the dickens he did not simply back track and leave well enough be. "C-computers and -"  
"Ways to fix my grievous, filthy human flaws, to be a proper grown-up, a proper person?" Crowley sneered. "Isn't that what you lot think? Hm, Father? If I just did better, it could all be fixed and I wouldn't be like this -!"  
This all came rather out of the blue, Aziraphale thought. They had discussed Crowley's lack of reading habits and the reason. He had also mentioned that it had been an issue at whatever school he had gone to, but... not like this.  
Crowley got up from his seat.  
"I should go home..." he said brusquely.  
Aziraphale just stared up at him.  
"You don't have to - Can you even walk?" he asked as Crowley took a step and his hip bucked quite a bit more than what was usual.  
"I'll be fine," Crowley said dismissively, limping towards his discarded shoes while pushing his sunglasses down on his nose again.  
Aziraphale frowned to himself for a second, then sucked in a deep breath. He felt like he was greatly overstepping a boundary, far beyond anything he had any reason to assume that he had the right to, when he opened his mouth, but open it he did, all the same;  
"Are you... sure you'd not rather... talk about whatever this is..?" he tried hesitantly, slowly pushing himself out of his chair.  
Crowley rounded on him, one shoe on, the other in his hand.  
"Talk about whattt??" he hissed.  
Aziraphale gestured vaguely at him.  
"About whatever... this is."  
Crowley looked absolutely astonished.  
"No," he half growled, half laughed. "no, I bloody well do not wanna talk about it. Least of all with a priest," he added with a snarl, returning his attention to his other shoe.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Oh, don't be obtuse," he scoffed. "I'm not your priest." When Crowley said nothing, Aziraphale continued; "Look here. if you and I were to see each other... socially, mind, under less crowded circumstances too, not just for poker night, I'd... I'd be amenable to that," he said, not even pausing to worry if what he had just said could be misconstrued. "But that won't happen if you keep..." He exasperatedly threw a hand out towards Crowley. "blowing up in my face like. The least you can do is let me know why. Why you get so upset and why you... continued to seek out my company when, clearly, the fact that I'm a priest makes your skin crawl."  
Crowley paused. He seemed to struggle with keeping his balance on his hurt leg to get his other shoe on anyway. For a long time they just looked at each other, Crowley's face emotionless behind the dark glasses and Aziraphale frowning determinately.  
"You do not wanna know," Crowley then said. He no longer sounded angry, just... grimly resigned.  
Not one to drawled, Aziraphale immediate seized the relented ground.  
"Alright," he said with a twitch of his nose. "If that's the incorrect assumption you're going with, then I'm - fortunately for us both, I suppose - under no moral obligation to give a damn." He sat back down in his chair and grabbed his wine glass from the floor.  
Crowley almost smirked.  
"I thought you were supposed to be trying to save the whole damn World, Father?"  
"And I think you're mistaking me for a much younger fool," Aziraphale said tersely into his wine. "and that we'd already agreed that there's no saving you anyway, so why waste my precious, limited time?"  
Crowley looked like he was starting to question if that was really the desired route to go by, but said nothing. The fight visible ebbed out of him as he just stood there, still only one shoe on.  
Aziraphale decided to take pity on him, for a few reasons, one being the smug sense of taking the high way and the other, major one being a nagging churning in the pit of his stomach.  
"Crowley..." He leaned forward in his seat, grasping his wine glass. "What's... what's going on?"  
Reluctance rolled off Crowley in droves. He scoffed and looked like he was considering a second round with his shoe, veering back and forth unsurely.  
"It's - look, Angel, maybe don't poke your nose into this one, honestly."  
"Crowley if something's... happened to you at some stage -" Aziraphale said carefully.  
Crowley made a choked-up noise.  
"I didn't get diddled by the local priest when I was six if that's what you're worried about," Crowley said.  
Aziraphale cringed slightly at the crass choice of words, but nodded.  
"Then what's the problem?"  
"Thought that would've been pretty easy to guess," Crowley said dryly. "But then again, you don't really see it that way, do you?"  
Aziraphale swallowed and looked away. No, he supposed, he and Crowley had rather... different ways of coping with certain things...  
"Is that all it is?" he asked. When Crowley said nothing, but merely quirked a brow as if to ask 'what do you think?', he continued; "That's not all, is it? There was some sort os issei's at school, wasn't there? And... you've mentioned some kind of 'home' a few times.... "  
He watched a hundred sentences of varying character form and die out inside Crowley's mind.  
"I didn't go to bloody school..." he muttered.  
Aziraphale frowned deeper.  
"But I thought you said -"  
"You're London issue, right?" Crowley interrupted.  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"I, oh, well, yes, I... suppose, if you like, but I don't - you do not get to creep out of this one with smallta-"  
"Catholic kid from London, 'n all..." Crowley interrupted. Again. Rather rudely. "You'll have heard of St. Jude's, yeah?"  
Aziraphale felt his stomach drop.  
"I, well... Yes, I've... heard the name before..." he said, shifting slightly in his seat.  
"There you go then," Crowley said quietly. "I bet you've been threatened that the priests would come and take you there if you weren't good?" he inquired with a cruel smirk.  
Aziraphale's hands fiddled desperately with his wine glass.  
":.. Something like that," he admitted.  
"Was it an efficient threat?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale sniffed.  
"It never really took much to get me to behave as a child," he admitted. "It was just something our Sunday school teacher said to us all one time... We were only nine. The effect was... relatively profound."  
"And you were right to be scared. Hell starts at St. Jude's," Crowley sing-songed, leaning, almost eerily nonchalantly, back into the sofa.  
Aziraphale squirmed.  
"So, erhm... How do you say... What were you... in for?" he asked carefully.  
Crowley smirked, grabbing the wine bottle from the floor.  
"What do you think? What would make good Catholic parents lock up their boy and throw away the key."  
"Because... you're..."  
"Got caught behind the bike sheds at school," he said, emptying the bottle into his glass. "With Timothy Stone."  
Aziraphale's stomach dropped but Crowley continued.  
"If it had been any other teacher we would've spent an awkward hour listening to the principal tell us how we could get AIDS from holding hands and sharing a water bottle and God doesn't approve..." Crowley said before taking a big gulp of wine. "Maybe we would've been dragged off to confession for good measure. Our folks, most likely, wouldn't even have been told, as long we didn't get caught again. But it was Mr Molyneux who found us. He belonged to the same church as my family. Tim's folks were... normal people, kinda, so at most they were just... a relatively regular amount of bothered, for the day and age, y'know? But Molyneux told my parents and then all Hell broke lose... It was the end of term, my grades were shit, so there was no point in taking any exams anyway so I was just carted off to St Jude's without warning."  
Aziraphale stared, hopelessly. Crowley seemed to far away to even notice.  
"I spent the next six years in that place..." he said distantly.  
Aziraphale balled his fists to stop them from trembling.  
"Did you not go home for Christmas and summers?" he asked. Even as it left his mouth it sounded pathetic.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Nah. My mum came to visit for Christmas, the first year, asked if I wanted to show her around a bit... I didn't. There was nothing about the place worth showing off and I was angry with her for letting Dad send me away."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"I can understand that..." he said quietly.  
"The year after I had... cooled down, I guess?" Crowley sighed. "Or maybe I was just getting desperate 'cos I hadn't seen my family for a year and a half. I phoned home to ask if they'd come and visit. Dad told me Mum had been too upset over my behaviour the year before. They weren't coming, either of 'em..."  
"But what about summers?"  
"Aziraphale..." Crowley groaned. "St Jude's wasn't a school. It wasn't designed to educate us, it was meant to detain us until they'd had a chance to bully us into being respectable, acceptable Catholic boys and girls..." He got up from his seat and paced back and forth in front of the empty fireplace. "It was meant to hide us and break us, to punish us for our sssins..!" he said heatedly. "To allow the priestsss to preach the wickednesss out of us until we obeyed and confessed to our flawsss! Until we were _niccce_!! We were children!" he shouted, hands balled into fists and teeth bared while Aziraphale just sat there, clutching his wine glass and staring like a moron. "We were just kidsss, I was jussst a kid! And they told me I was filthy and evil and wrong! All I did was kisss one guy, onccce! And for that I dessserved to listen to grownupsss telling me that God hated me and that I wasss going to burn in Hell! Every day! For sssix years!!" he screamed, flinging his sunglasses across the room.  
Aziraphale had pushed himself as far up against the back of his chair as possible. He carefully watched Crowley who just stood there, head hanging low and staring at the floor, huffing like he had run a mile.  
"You... you didn't." he said in a small voice.  
Crowley snorted and looked up at him. He looked wrecked and exhausted.  
"Didn't what?" he asked hollowly.  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"No one deserves that kind of treatment..." he said.  
"I suppose you could call it 'preemptive punishment'," Crowley philosophised sardonically.  
Aziraphale tried to catch his gaze, still, he realised, clinging to his half-empty wine glass.  
"What do you mean..?" he carefully prodded. Crowley seemed like he needed to vent, so...  
"There were three kinds of people at St. Jude's..." Crowley muttered bitterly. "The ones that bent and the ones that broke..."  
Aziraphale waited for him to finish but when that did not happen he gently prompted; "And the third kind..?"  
Crowley's face was locked in a sneer.  
"The Judas Club," he simply said.  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Judas Club..?"  
Crowley turned away. With a startle Aziraphale heard the clanging of a belt coming undone and a zipper going down. He was about ask what was going on when Crowley turned around, jeans open and pulled down slightly. Aziraphale's mouth went dry. Crowley sauntered closer and hooked a thumb under the elastic of his pants. Aziraphale struggled to get his uncooperative tongue back into gear to protest, to stop this -  
"The Judas Club," Crowley then said. He had inched down his pants, just enough to reveal a scar on his hipbone, the shape of a J.  
Aziraphale sagged slightly with relief. Then he frowned again.  
"How did you get this?" he asked, almost reaching out to prod at the scar, before getting a hold of himself. He always had that terrible habit of looking with his fingers...  
Crowley snorted. He let Aziraphale stare at the shiny pink skin a moment longer, then he put his clothes to rights again and threw himself onto the sofa again.  
"Used a rubber," he said.  
Aziraphale stared in horror.  
"You branded yourself with a rubber??" he gasped.  
"Yep. Took an age and it stung like the Devil's arse," Crowley chuckled darkly. "Was a bitch to heal, too. Cracked when I walked and my pants kept getting stuck in wound, 'specially during the night. Had to yank it free every morning."  
Every fibre in Aziraphale's body cringed and gagged at once.  
"But why?" he asked. "And why there? Why not some place... less bothersome?"  
Crowley smirked and topped up his glass.  
"Because, if one of the priests found a burn mark practically in my groin, I'd have much bigger problems than getting caught for self-mutilation," he said. "It seemed like the safest place."  
Aziraphale downed his wine in one hard swallow.  
"Fair point," he conceded quietly. "But that brings us back to why in the World you felt a need to be... marked up in the first place." he continued.  
Crowley set down his glass and rested his elbows on his knees, palms pressed together.  
"Like I said... There were three kinds of kids in that place," he said, eyes growing distant. "The ones who caved to the pressure and the bullying and straightened up their act, at least outwardly. They were the ones that got to go home pretty quickly... Then there were the ones that broke - the girls who got pregnant and all the ones who just... snapped one day. Spent the afternoon locked in the deputy's office, and then they were gone the next morning and no one knew where they went. Hopefully somewhere nicer but I honestly doubt it. And then there were us - the Judas Club, the true misfits, the ones who talked back to the teachers and started fights and snuck out at night to get wasted behind the janitor's shed. The ones who weren't sorry for what we'd done... The ones that the priests were willing to swear actually were in league with the Devil..." He laughed bitterly. "And by the end of our time there, perhaps we were. I wasn't God's best child when I went into that place, but when I came out..." He wrinkled his nose.  
Aziraphale had nothing to say to that. He could practically taste Crowley's pain in the air. It had all seemed more like fragments than anything else so there was clearly so much more to know and he would rather not cause upset by commenting on something he did not know the full story of.  
"Sorry about that..." Crowley muttered after a couple of minutes, nodding off towards the scrunched up rug in front of the fireplace. "I don't... talk about St Jude's."  
Aziraphale straightened his back and took a deep breath.  
"That's quite alright..." he said, unsure how much emotion to put in it. "It doesn't... that's a horrid way to be... sent away..."  
Crowley clicked his teeth against the edge of his glass.  
"Being sent away was one thing..." he mumbled darkly. "What we were sent away to was something entirely different." He looked up at Aziraphale. "You were right to be scared."  
"One boy from the year below me was sent there, I think," Aziraphale recalled. "At least, that was the word was about the school..."  
"Do you remember his name?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale bit his lip.  
"No..." He tutted derisively to himself. "I'm honestly ashamed to say that I don't..."  
Crowley shook his head.  
"Nah... That place did that. Once you were in, it's like you were just... gone. You didn't exist, beyond what you managed to cling onto yourself."  
"Seems like you managed alright..." Aziraphale offered. "To hang onto... yourself, I mean..."  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Dunno. You never really know who I'd have been without... Which is what people always cite as the silver lining. Y'know, 'I like who I am now'..."  
"I don't see why you shouldn't," Aziraphale said earnestly. "I-I mean - I understand why you'd rather not have - b-but, um, uh -" He trailed off awkwardly.  
Crowley smiled. A soft thing that only laughed slightly at Aziraphale's rambling and not in a mean-spirited way.  
Aziraphale hesitantly returned the smile.  
"Terribly bad luck though," he continued.  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"In what way?"  
"Well, you - you also... You like women, don't you," Aziraphale said. "Or, used to, you say? I don't know, I'm honestly not quite sure how that sort of thing... works, I suppose, but -"  
"I see someone pretty, I try to shag 'em," Crowley shrugged. "Bloke, lady, whatever's in between... I'm just a lot less picky with the arse I tap than with the food I eat, I guess," he smirked.  
"Sounds awfully handy," Aziraphale said wistfully.  
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"You think?"  
"You could - if you wanted," Aziraphale explained. "I mean, you already did, didn't you? You married a woman! You were happy - I mean, yes, alright, you kept things... less traditional, I guess, and you did end up getting a divorce but, in principle..."  
"I could've stayed married to my ex and no one would've ever had to know about my spicier tendencies?" Crowley asked slowly.  
Aziraphale sensed that perhaps he was skirting the edge of putting his foot in his mouth, but surely Crowley just did not catch his meaning.  
"I - yes!" he nodded.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Why is it that you lot always jump to that conclusion?" he asked irritatedly. "That a hetero-looking relationship is a cop-out, the easy solution?"  
"Because it is easy!" Aziraphale said puzzledly. "People... people see -"  
"You know what people see?" Crowley asked. "When they see a bi guy? They see a compulsory cheater who'll never be satisfied with one partner and never able to commit. The gays see a guy who'll eventually dump them for the easy route, a breeding turncoat who wants the fun but not the supposedly noble struggle. And the ladies see a limp-wristed faggot with AIDS who's only using them to hide. You're too normal for the outcasts and too queer for the normies and they're all waiting for you to make up your mind. 'Come back when you're not confused anymore'. You end up in no-man's land where people are hissing at you from every angle..." Crowley shook his head. "I didn't realise I was into girls until a while I was sent to St Jude's... Had a big, queer panic thing over it. Thought they had actually managed to beat the gay out of me. Didn't realise 'bi' was a thing you could be... The others thought it was a great trick. Proper unhinged." He snorted bitterly. "And when I got out, finally free of the beatings and the bullying and the endless threats of hellfire and brimstone... I thought I could be an actual person then and not a cool party trick... Turned out I was still a pariah." He met Aziraphale's eyes. "It's not 'easy', Angel," he said. "You're just stuck in the middle and no one at all likes you."  
"You never made it sound like you've struggled to... find willing participants," Aziraphale commented and he most certainly did not have a bitter undertone as he said it..!  
Crowley threw his head about.  
"As long as you brand it as some sort of... purposeful act, people think it's fun. 'Oh yeah, Crowley, he's all over the place. That's his thing, sticking it to the system.' And they all come flocking to be the one that tames you, makes you make up your mind. They don't take it seriously..."  
Aziraphale frowned unhappily.  
"I didn't realise it was... that bad," he said.  
Crowley shook his head.  
"You couldn't."  
Aziraphale swallowed.  
"Did they really beat you?" he asked, because he did not know what to say to the whole... thing about Crowley and the women and the men. "Like... beat you. Not just, you know, the occasional smack?"  
Crowley nodded sagely  
"Beat us, stood us outside in the rain in winter, locked us in our rooms for a couple of days at a time with no food... 'To calm us down', y'know..."  
"You had rooms?" Aziraphale asked, surprised.  
Crowley snorted.  
"You didn't think they were going to leave a bunch of degenerate sodomites in a dorm together, were you?" he half-chuckled sardonically.  
"I'd have loved rooms..." Aziraphale said wistfully.  
"They were more like cells, I suppose, really," Crowley said. "Done up a bit, I mean, but the place used to be a mental asylum in the old days. So that was always nice, wondering what poor sod in a straight jacket had been beating his head against the walls in your pad."  
Aziraphale paled.  
"Oh... Goodness, Lord..."  
Crowley gave a tight, insincere smile.  
"Yeahp... The ghost stories we told each other were... pretty advanced, as you can imagine."  
Aziraphale huffed.  
"I'd have died... At our place we supposedly just had one ghost, and we were only told the story once, when we first started and it gave me the heebie-jeebies for years."  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Pretty quickly you learned that some angry ghost of a frustrated nobleman's wife from two centuries ago was the absolute least of your worries in that place," he said. "You just develop a pretty rough sense of humour under those conditions. And when you come out, the rest of the World looks at you like you're fit for an actual mental hospital when you open your mouth."  
"Did you..." Aziraphale cleared his throat. He was unsure if this was a reasonable question to ask. But then again, Crowley had never been shy about refusing to do things, so he tried his luck; "Did you get beaten a lot?"  
It sounded strangely plain and detached but also horribly intrusive at the same time.  
Crowley seemed unaffected.  
"All the time," he said indifferently. "Once they had their eye on you it didn't take much to trigger, y'know what I mean?" he said, ruffling his hair. "And when you're like me and talk back all the time... Or just refuse to learn to read, no matter how many times the Father O'Toole grabbed you by the hair and dunked you in the fish tank in the corner... So yeah, I got my fair share."  
Aziraphale looked horrified.  
Crowley continued, eerily... pleased with himself.  
"One time I pissed off the deputy headmaster so badly he smacked me across the face with the Bible," he chuckled to himself.  
Aziraphale stared.  
"He did what??"  
"Yeah, yeah, look!" Crowley leaned forward, brushing his hair behind his ear. He pointed to the tattoo on his cheek. "See the scar under here? His Bible had these metal corners and he cut me open a bit."  
Aziraphale did not even bother looking at the faint dent in the skin under the ink.  
"He hit you across the face with -"  
"With the Bible, yeah!" Crowley grinned. "He was _furious_! A Bible, imagine it!"  
"He hit you -!" Aziraphale sputtered.  
"You went to school around the same time as me," Crowley said, shrugging. "Surely the teachers at whatever nice, posh boarding school you went to dished out a few whollopings too?"  
Aziraphale sputtered.  
"Like I said, the occasional smack! And not with objects with sharp edges! And - how do you know I went to boarding school?"  
"It's pretty damn obvious," Crowley snickered.  
Aziraphale tutted.  
"Yes, well..."  
"How bad was it?"  
Aziraphale waved a hand at Crowley.  
"It was nothing compared to St Jude's," he said dismissively.  
Crowley's overly lively eyebrows quirked up in the middle.  
"Aw, no, don't, don't do that."  
"Do what?"  
"You're entitled to your experiences," Crowley said. "We weren't the only kids who had it tough."  
"Who says I had it tough?" Aziraphale asked.  
Crowley shot him a look of 'come now'.  
"Angel," he sing-songed. "I mentioned 'school' off-handedly, earlier, and you looked ready to throw yourself out the window. _And_ you had a ghost. What hum-drum day school has a ghost, come on."  
_Oh. You saw that. Of course you did..._  
"I did no such thing!"  
"I've shared," Crowley argued. "I've poured my heart out, now it's your turn!"'  
"There isn't really much to share..." Aziraphale protested shrilly.  
"Oh, I see, so you're telling me that you had a great time, made a couple of solid mates that you still exchange Christmas cards with, and all the teachers were tough but fair?" Crowley drawled sardonically.  
"Alright, alright! I -" Aziraphale took a deep breath. Crowley was sort of right. It would only be fair if Aziraphale told him some, but... urgh. _School_... "What do you want to know?"  
"What was it like? For the good boysss. The ones that weren't being sent away for being unacceptable."  
Aziraphale shrugged.  
"The food was alright," he offered.  
"Ours was shit," Crowley countered. "Like... prison type stuff."  
"I doubt the parents would've allowed that at St David's," Aziraphale speculated.  
"Ooh, David's! I've heard of that one! That is posh!" Crowley cooed. "Did you have a cricket team too?"  
"Honestly, will you leave that be, it was a game at a fair -"  
"Which you obliterated."  
"You're being overdramatic," Aziraphale scolded. "And no, I didn't learn that at school. What the devil do you think?? Our PE teacher didn't have time to teach anyone anything." He shuddered. "He was too busy picking on half of us..." he muttered. "Honestly, that's why I learned. Got... tired of being the butt of the joke."  
"I'm surprised your posh twat daddy didn't teach you before you were sent off," Crowley noted. "Can't imagine having your lad running about with no aim is good for the family name," he cackled.  
"My father died when I was two," Aziraphale deadpanned.  
Crowley's mocking smirk fell.  
"Oh. Shit..." He grimaced apologetically.  
"Don't," Aziraphale said, rather wickedly smug that he had at least managed to take the redhead down a peg. "It was only two when it happened. I don't remember him at all, only through stories I've been told." he pursed his lips. "But, uh, where was I?"  
"Where you learned to throw a ball," Crowley pushed on. _Before I put my foot in my mouth. Let's move on from that, quickly now..._  
"Ah, yes." Aziraphale wetted his lips and pressed his palms together firmly. "Being alone, I suppose, Mother was always quite social. Or, well... She was always out and about it seemed, at least. So, uh... the chair of the local cricket club went to our church, so one day we were invite to this.. get-together they were holding for their new coach. Some bloke who had been ready for the national team or something but then he fell and wrecked his leg in some fashion and had to give up."  
"So he came to your local cricket club to teach twelve year olds to bowl?"  
"Apparently he was locally born," Aziraphale shrugged. "I'd never heard of him, so that was a tad awkward... I never really cared much for cricket, so I was sort... stood in a corner, minding my own business while everyone else was terribly excited. I guess Gareth took pity on me -"  
Crowley suddenly looked very interested.  
"Woah, woah, woah. _Gareth_??"  
"His name was Gareth," Aziraphale said puzzledly.  
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"Oh, so it's that kind of story. A'ight. Sharing we are," he said, wiggling to get himself more comfortable still on the sofa.  
Aziraphale frowned a little, not quite sure what Crowley was referring to, but he figured he may as well continue.  
"So we got to chatting and I told him I barely knew what was up and down on a ball. So he offered to teach me to bowl -"  
"How old was _Gareth_?" Crowley cut in.  
Aziraphale thought back.  
"He must've been... 22?" he offered.  
"And you were..?"  
"Fourteen? Why?"  
Crowley hummed.  
"Bit old for you at the time perhaps..." he pondered. "But no one likes a hypocrite, so I'm just gonna shut up," he grinned.  
Aziraphale felt his face grow warm.  
"No! No, that's not - we didn't - he just taught me to bowl! Honestly, you and your dirty mind!" he fussed.  
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"Right."  
"Quite right!" Aziraphale insisted.  
"A'ight, so you fumbled it," Crowley allowed. "Doesn't mean there wasn't -"  
"Gareth wasn't - like that," Aziraphale cut in, stammering. "And I was just a big kid. It was nothing like... like what you're imagining, you horror!"  
Crowley took in Aziraphale bright red cheeks. Five quid said Crowley was not the only one who had had funny ideas about Aziraphale and Gareth.  
"'Ey, I'm just teasing!" He held up his hands defensively.  
"It's not funny," Aziraphale muttered.  
_Nah. I'd imagine it wasn't..._  
"Did you picked on for it at school?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale snorted derisively and rolled his eyes in that delightfully snotty way he did.  
"Of course I did. Got jealous, didn't they, when I came back after the summer break and threw all jaffers."  
Crowley did not know what 'gaffers' were, but he was willing to ignore that for the time being. Probably forever, really. To Hell with cricket.  
"Didn't mean that," he said.  
Aziraphale puffed up defensively.  
"What else would they -"  
"Angel. The crap," Crowley said tiredly. "Cut it."  
Aziraphale deflated again.  
"I never told any of them," he said quietly, eyes locked on his fiddling hands. "Wasn't anyone to tell..."  
"Doesn't mean they couldn't guess," Crowley observed.  
Aziraphale swallowed hard.  
"Th-there were... rumours a-about plenty of people... Just childish... nonsense..." he stammered tightly. "They didn't know. No one knew." He folded his hands tightly in his lap. "Could you imagine if they had..." He chuckled hollowly. "I was already the fat bookworm who always did as I was told and couldn't run a hundred yards without coughing up a lung..." He cocked his head. "That was actually the bit they seemed to take the most issue with. The fact that I never seemed to get up to anything... inconspicuous at all." He shrugged.  
"They were probably worried you'd grass on 'em," Crowley said, rather obviously. "We always had that problem over at St Jude's... The do-gooders who wanted to stay on priests good side, always looking for any chance to score a cheap point."  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"You'd have hated the sight of me," he chuckled humourlessly, sagging into his chair. "You'd probably have bullied me too, if we'd known each other back then..."  
Crowley felt like he had been punched in the gut, but...  
"My friends would've..." he admitted quietly.  
Aziraphale nodded valiantly.  
"Some of the older boys used to sneak out... to a pub and guest house a couple of miles down the road. Bribed the landlord for beer... Met up with girls," he said. "They were always so worried I'd be telling... Absolutely nothing would happen to them 'cos I never told and I would still be held up in the hall."  
"Did you never sneak out with them? For a drink or two. Sounds like you could've used one," Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale looked horrified.  
"Goodness, no! No, imagine if I'd gotten drunk and..." He cleared his throat. "Well. No. Drinking around others was absolutely out of the question!" He put his palms down against his thighs with finality. "No, I preferred to stay at the school and get drunk alone while I did my homework..."  
Crowley barked a laugh but immediately stopped as Aziraphale did not so much as smile.  
"You're serious?"  
Aziraphale nodded, lips pressed together tightly. He looked absolutely stricken with embarrassment.  
"I drank an absolutely obscene amount during my last year at St David's," he recalled. "I was three sheets to the wind when I took my maths O-levels... I had gotten the dates mixed up and had... had a few. I managed to finish the test without being sick and then I ran and hid in the bathrooms, to bawl my eyes out. Believe you me, none was more relieved than my liver when I started college."  
"Yeah, not much drinking going on in seminary, I'd imagine..." Crowley frowned. "Do you need maths to go to seminary?"  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"No, not for seminary. But... they don't accept people in straight out of secondary, do they? They'd rather not let in any angsty teenagers suffering a fit of religious excitement... So I had to do something else for a few years, so I got myself a bachelor degree in library science at the University of London."  
Crowley sagged.  
"You are such a nerd..." he groaned. Then he wiggled about until he was sitting up again. "So I guess this brings us elegantly onto that age old question: Why are you here?"  
Aziraphale blinked.  
"This is my home," he said.  
Crowley rolled his eyes.  
"And _why_ is it your home?"  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"What do you mean?"  
"You went to college!" Crowley said exasperatedly. "Studied something - a'ight, maybe not normal, but sort of normal. You..." He waved a hand about vaguely. "you got away! So why..."  
Aziraphale sighed. Was that redheaded menace ever going to stop digging??  
"I wanted the degree because I thought that perhaps one day I could go to Rome... work at the Holy See, in the archives... When I was first interviewed for seminary, when I knew they wouldn't accept me in yet, I explained as much to them. To show I was serious, that I wanted to go somewhere with it all..."  
"When exactly did you decide that you wanted to go to seminary?" Crowley asked, tucking on leg under himself.  
Aziraphale blushed.  
"Well... After that summer, when I was 14..."  
"With Gerry..." Crowley followed along.  
Aziraphale sighed.  
" _Gareth_. But all the same... Until then I had sort of... not given... all that _too_ much thought. But then..."  
"Then you would've liked for Garry to get his hands on a different kind of balls?" Crowley suggested.  
"Oh, must you be so bloody crass?" Aziraphale tutted disdainfully.  
Crowley waved him off.  
"Yes," he said distractedly. He leaned forward, elbows on his bony knees. "So you're telling me that you sat pretty on wanting to be a priest for what..." He counted to himself. "seven years? You went through college and all and you just... never changed your mind?"  
"I'd never been more certain of what I wanted than when I graduated," Aziraphale said with emphasis.  
"Really? A great big building full of bookish, well-educated queers in corduroy trousers and all you wanted was to get away from them?"  
"You say 'corduroy' like there's something wrong with it," Aziraphale sniffed.  
"Let's not get into that right now," Crowley said tiredly. "But... Angel, be honest now -"  
"As I have been all along," Aziraphale said pointedly.  
"I never fully trust you," Crowley said, waggling a finger and smirking impishly. "But seriously," he let his grin fall. "why did you want to be a priest in the first place?"  
Aziraphale's face was perfectly neutral as he replied;  
"I would've thought that was perfectly obvious..." he said quietly. "I was very clearly made for it," he added, even more quietly.  
Crowley hummed and nodded.  
"And going to college... Away from school and the bullies and the Church... Did you never question this... predestined purpose of yours?" he asked, not sure if he was distressed or somewhat in awe at Aziraphale's single-minded stubbornness.  
"I still went home to go to church with Mother every Sunday," Aziraphale muttered. He looked away and took a deep breath. "It was perfectly obvious to me what the Lord wanted and needed me to do," he said, every syllable carefully enunciated. "In fact," he looked up again, actually smiling a little. "college really showed me how much good I could do in the World."  
"What? You got your soap box out and bored people at the campus half to death?" Crowley asked snippily. He was clearly getting his heckles up again, but Aziraphale decided to let that be Crowley's own private problem.  
"No, I just... got to meet a very different sort of people than what I'd gone to school with," he said. "I saw a lot of... other ways to live life. I learned as much about people as I did about the London Education Classification system... Learned to meet people in the middle, what kind of help they actually needed."  
"And those other ways of life never really... spoke to you?" Crowley prodded. Surely there had to have been _some_ sort of... bend in the ruler straight road. _Nothing else_ about Aziraphale was straight forward.  
"Mother always warned me that sinners could be kind people too," Aziraphale said in a small voice. "but that we had to be wary not to... stoop to their levels."  
"So you just stayed on your high horse, looking down your nose at them all for three years and then fucked off to seminary with all your little notes about how to talk to folks who weren't born with a bar of gold up their arse?" Crowley asked disbelievingly. "Never asking -"  
"There were no questions to ask!" Aziraphale interrupted heatedly. To Crowley's horror, his eyes had gone all misty. "Mother was still alive at the time I was in college! There was nothing - it was what it was!" He sighed deeply, lips trembling. "You'll be glad to know, I'm sure you're not the only person who questioned my enrollment into seminary..." He curled up around himself, looking miserable as ever. "St David's wasn't very big on... preparing you for _life_ , on the outside, as it were..." he explained. "I left home to live on campus, alone for the first time in my life and I had no discernible skills commonly useful to an adult living on their own." He dared cast a small, sheepish smile towards Crowley who returned it with a vague chuckled. "Cooking being one of them. Absolutely, good old-fashioned screwed I was... Until a very nice couple of young ladies from down the hall took pity on me, lost as I was. Taught me the basics. We ended up seeing quite a bit of each other over the next three years, even after they found a flat off-campus." Aziraphale's wistful face darkened. "They weren't particularly impressed as graduation neared and they found out I was off to seminary next. Not impressed at all." He looked up at Crowley. "They didn't have nearly the anaphylactic reaction you do but... they did make it known that they would've liked to know this about me sooner. I never discussed religion with anyone at college. I didn't want to... push it in anyone's face. Mother had told me to be careful with that before I left. Said that I was more likely to help people right their wrongs if I didn't force their hand..." He suddenly frowned. "Not that I ever tried to - they were just my friends, they were lovely people, I never wanted to... presume to tell them what to do!" he added hurriedly. "They made a very nice couple, the pair of them..."  
"Ever talk to them again?"  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"No... They didn't seem inclined..."  
"And that didn't... make you wonder if maybe..?" Crowley fished.  
Aziraphale shook his head again, more adamantly this time.  
"Like I said. Mother was still alive. There was nothing else I could do, besides what I was already doing."  
Crowley gave up on the idea of so much as suggesting 'cutting contact', because it was clearly not an existing option.  
"How did she take it? Your mother. Was she proud?" he asked instead. "Her little boy, off to selflessly serve the Lord and flock?"  
Aziraphale heaved a sigh that came from somewhere deep within the void of another dimension.  
"Not one bit..." he said unhappily. "When I was younger... Before Gareth... I'd always talked about wanting to run a bookshop. Well - first I wanted to be a ballet dancer, when I was very little," he diverted with a self-deprecating smirk. "Mother took me to see 'The Nutcracker' when I was four and I was absolutely besotted. But obviously that was out of the question... And perhaps just as well. I've never really had the... physique. But once I'd made my peace with that, I thought perhaps I could do something with my love for books... Mother seemed quite fond of that idea. Said it would suit my... delicate character well. As long as I promised not to stock any indecent materials, of course." He nodded to himself. "When I went to study library science... I think she thought I was doing it in preparation for opening my shop." He drew in a breath measuring about seven on the Richter scale and continued; "When I told her I was going to seminary..."  
Crowley's stomach had dropped to the level of his knees.  
"She guessed why," he concluded quietly.  
"She was so disappointed," Aziraphale whispered, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. "I'd never seen her like that. The way she just... withdrew completely, right then and there. She didn't even say anything, she just nodded and... kept eating her supper in silence." He squeezed his eyes shut before continuing; "I had been so afraid what she would say or do..." he ground out, shaking from head to toe. "I'd even made sure to tell the lady next door first. That way I knew that everyone would know before Mother... And then there'd be nothing she could say or do." He cracked his eyes open and looked at Crowley. "Throwing a fit because your son wants to be a priest isn't... it looks suspicious, doesn't it?" he asked tersely. "Two months later I said my goodbyes, left for seminary... Didn't come back home until the funeral. Only spoke about twenty words to her in between those two events. Didn't get to say goodbye to her one last time... Didn't even know she was ill."  
Crowley was a bit stunned. This had gone way darker than he had expected it to. He suddenly realised he was absolutely gagging for a fag, but he could hardly leave Aziraphale as he sat there in his chair, completely morose, eyes a million miles away.  
"What did she from..?" he asked.  
"Breast cancer..." Aziraphale said. "Pretty classic, I've been told."  
"That's rough..."  
"The worst part..." Aziraphale whispered. "was the feeling that I caused it... If I could just have... not been like this, everything would've happened differently. I could've... done something else. Found a girl at college..." He blinked owlishly at looked up at Crowley. "It sounds so ignorant and petulant after what you said," he said, eyes burning. "but I'd give an arm and a leg to have been like you..."  
If Aziraphale started crying right now, Crowley was going to eat one of his own limbs like a stressed-out octopus.  
"Don't apologise," he said dismissively because most of his brain was busy trying to not hug the poor, upset, little fluff ball in front of him.  
"In our last year of sixth form..." Aziraphale said. "they held this dinner-dance for us and the young ladies from a nearby all-girls... A sort of all-Catholic debutant thing." He gave a little bubbling chuckle. "We had to learn to dance the Lanciers. Everyone hated it but I actually thought it was quite fun. Not that I was stunning at it or anything, but... we were taught in PE and it was better than running laps or being at the bottom of the dogpile. I ended up actually having quite a bit of fun at the dance. Danced with at least a dozen girls. Made it home with a stack of calling cards and napkins with phone numbers on it, thick enough that I was damn near walking lopsided from the weight. Went back up to my dorm, drank half a bottle of whiskey and... just curled up in bed." Aziraphale ran a hand over his face. "Woke up at the crack of the dawn the next morning 'cos the other boys grabbed me and dunked my head in the toilet. Apparently I had dropped a phone number from a girl that one of them had had his eye on..." He quirked a brow, a terse, disdainful expression. "I never called any of them back. Couldn't bring myself to... I tried so hard to fancy just one of them that night at the dance and... nothing. I couldn't face inviting one over for tea at Mother's house and... being caught in the lie..."  
 _Less pressure being all alone..._  
"When I first realised I fancied girls too... I thought I was mentally unwell. When it was just guys, I just... sort of decided there was nothing wrong me. Refused to believe the grownups when they said I was twisted. But then I discovered girls and panicked. I actually thought that maybe they were beginning to beat it out of me... Didn't realise bisexual was a thing that existed." He rolled his eyes. "Plenty of people around who still don't seem to get it."  
"How easy that could've been, though..." Aziraphale sighed. "I could've met a nice girl..."  
"You could meet someone now," Crowley suggested. _You could meet me. Hi. Name's Crowley_. "In fact, you could've met someone ages ago. Your mother died, right? You could've left seminary."  
Aziraphale paused, then shook his head.  
"It wasn't that simple... I was -" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "After Mother died... I had nowhere to go. It was easier to just... stick with what I was already doing. Besides... people can be so horrid. It felt... safer."  
Crowley could hardly argue with that, but still -  
"It's gotten a lot easier out here since back then," he said.  
It had, had it not? Aziraphale remembered all those votes. The age of consent, the right to marry. He had been so pleased for all those happy people, so proud of them that they had managed to make themselves heard, had gotten what they wanted. And it had felt like it absolutely nothing to do with him. Like it never could have, regardless of his circumstances...  
"Laugh if you like... but now I actually love my job. I mean, I always did, but... I like it here. I like my congregants here in Tadfield, I like my life."  
Crowley hummed. Aziraphale's face seemed to be lighting up from within as he looked around the cluttered room. He looked genuinely happy, contented. At home and comfortable. A deeply disconcerting certainty that he needed Aziraphale to feel like that, more than he needed to shag the guy washed over Crowley. That whatever made Aziraphale happy was what mattered more than anything. Even it meant just lingering about in the periphery, all look and no touch.  
"Are you gasping for a fag?" he asked, because his head was suddenly a very complicated place to hang out. "I am. Wanna go have a smoke?"  
Aziraphale suddenly looked ready to kill for a soaked filter.  
"Lord, yes!" He practically jumped out of his chair and held out a hand towards Crowley, who took it and pulled himself up. Not that he needed it, his hip felt perfectly fine at the moment, but... "What time is it?" Aziraphale asked next, twisting Crowley's arm in order to stare at his wrist watch. "Oh, fiddlesticks, what even is this clock anyway??" He fished out his pocket watch instead and squinted at the dial. "Goodness, look at that! It's twenty past nine!" He put a hand over his stomach. "I suppose that explains why I'm hungry..." he muttered.  
"I can offer you a cigarette to munch on?" Crowley shrugged.  
"Actually, don't mind if I do. I don't think a Winston One is going to cut it here."  
"Why do you smoke that crap anyway?" Crowley asked as they slipped out onto the front steps and he held the packet of smokes out towards Aziraphale. "They're useless."  
"I'm trying to quit, aren't I??" Aziraphale fussed, pulling out a lighter and lighting up the cigarette like his life depended on it. "Lent next year," he announced as he blew out a puff of smoke. "I'm done. And this time I mean it!" he pouted.  
"Not if you keep smoking mine at that rate," Crowley quipped. He felt absolutely drained, only noticing how far he had dropped from his anxious rush just in that moment.  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"Yes, well, you keep pushing them at me," he sniffed, nose in the air. After a moment of pouting he shot Crowley a sideways glance. "Any plans for dinner?"  
"Some more of your excellent toast and marmite?"  
"I'm surprised you like marmite," Aziraphale observed.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Likewise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. This was also late. Very late. But considering the word count on this absolute unit and the more intricate nature of its contents I trust you can see why <3
> 
> Please leave a comment, they give me life. So do kudos, so in case you haven't already blessed me one of those, feel absolutely free to do so ;) Every time you guys give this story attention it makes me want to keep writing it <3


	22. Chapter 22

_Monday, 10th July_

_  
_"Is Crowley alright?" Deidre asked, flipping through a folder of papers as Aziraphale entered the office, newly returned from the old folks home.  
Aziraphale snorted automatically.   
"Is Crowley ever?"  
He probably was, the ginger menace, he seemed to bop on top of trouble like cork on water, but then again - most things probably seemed trivial compared to six years at St Jude's,  
Aziraphale had realised. If you had already left Hell, what was there to worry about?   
"That's the thing I can't quite decide..." Deidre pondered. "He seems a bit... up and down. Comes looking for you an awful lot."  
Aziraphale shrugged. He had made a concerted effort to chat with Crowley in the days following their long talk after the market. Aziraphale had wanted to make it clear that talking with one another was not just some fluke, even if the were, perhaps, going to stay away from the heavier topics. Despite being nearly sober on Sunday night, striking up conversation the following Tuesday evening as Crowley was closing up the shop, had been surprisingly mortifying. Aziraphale had felt all but stripped down to his birthday suit and he imagined Crowley had felt something similar. Young Newton Pulsifer had delivered the flower decorations earlier that day, which reeked of Crowley avoiding something, but after about a minute of awkward staring at one another, both Crowley and Aziraphale had pulled themselves together and had eventually agreed to have dinner at the pub since neither of them had been adult enough to plan anything for their evening meal.   
"Yes, well. We've been getting friendly," Aziraphale said politely. Perhaps a little too politely, because Deidre _hummed_ in a certain sort of way.   
"Didn't mean to pry into official business," she smiled quickly.   
Something in Aziraphale, his conscience, possibly, squirmed that Deidre thought any sort of priestly business was taking place. It was in part because talking to Crowley in the capacity of a priest seemed... unmannerly rude, knowing what Aziraphale now knew, and in part due to the blatant lie in the fact that... whatever they were now, had started out as something _decidedly unpriestly_. Something unpriestly which was now completely and fully _off the table_ , a fact which Aziraphale could almost enjoy - _did enjoy_! One more problem out of his hair! - simply because he very much appreciated their newly found openness which had replaced it.  
"You've just been spending a lot of time together," Deidre continued after a minute, knocking Aziraphale out of reliving the look Crowley had given him as they had said their quiet goodbyes Sunday night. Crowley had looked strangely empty, like a shell with nothing but an echo bouncing about in his head, rather than the hundred chaotic thoughts that normally seemed to be rustling and bustling behind his eyes. Aziraphale had almost wanted to hug him, only to chicken out and satisfy himself with a quick squeeze to Crowley's shoulder. Crowley had smiled, a surprisingly kind, tired ghost of a thing and had shuffled off into the night, still limping a bit.   
Aziraphale had felt... weirdly warm. Around the heart, that was, the temperature outside had been elatively chilly compared to what it had been during the day. He had never felt this open with anyone before. Not even that time when old Father Alan had visited Aziraphale in his room after Vespers, to have a stern chat about Aziraphale's growing closeness with Marjorie, who at the time had been a new face in the village. Father Alan had expressed his concern about the amount of time Aziraphale spent with Marjorie, especially one particular evening when Aziraphale had come home frightfully late.   
Aziraphale should of course have lied and said he had simply been guiding Marjorie towards the Lord and his word, but Aziraphale had been just as bad at lying back then as he was in the present day and had immediately proclaimed that he and Marjorie had lost track of time, chatting over a cup of tea and a whiskey. Father Alan had been less than impressed and explained that _word_ was getting around in the village. That certain speculations had been made and that he was beginning to share them. The increasingly panicked Aziraphale had had very little to say beyond denying any accusations, which had done nothing to convince Father Alan. As Aziraphale had retorted that people's dirty minds were none of his fault, Father Alan had declared that he thought it best that Aziraphale saw less of Marjorie. A lot less. Aziraphale had angrily replied that if dining with whores had been good enough for Christ, it was good enough for him, only to have 'Christ was not a mere mortal, prone to falling into the arms of women' thrown at him. 'I can assure you, women are no issue' had flung itself out of Aziraphale's mouth, the prospect of telling Marjorie that they could no longer socialise due to their respective occupations absolutely mortifying. Although, so had the look of dawning understanding in old Father Alan's eyes been, the moment Aziraphale had spoken the words. Heart in his throat, Aziraphale had offered to pack his belongings first thing in the morning, but Father Alan had simply waved him off and shuffled towards the door.   
_It doesn't matter which way we are prone to straying, Aziraphale. As long as we stay on the path, it makes no difference.   
_Aziraphale had timidly inquired if that meant the whole 'thing' with Marjorie was forgotten and Father Alan had scoffed at him, noting that it was hardly Aziraphale's responsibility what other people and their dirty minds thought they saw. With that he had wished Aziraphale goodnight and had gone back to his own end of the rectory house.   
That had been many, _many_ years ago and until Sunday night, it had been the closest Aziraphale had ever come to admitting his... nature to anyone. He might not have actually used any definite terms when talking with Crowley, but it had all been pretty clear and intentional. Those few words exchanged with Father Alan had not been opening up. It had been the minutest of slips, which Aziraphale had afterwards done everything he could to bury. This with Crowley. It needed to stay hidden, in a sense, but it was much too late to bury it and Aziraphale felt somehow lighter for it. He had always imagine that properly admitting it to anyone would be terrifying, but the stark opposite was the case.   
"We just seem to have a lot to talk about," he said, perhaps a little dismissively. "I do have normal friends, you know."  
Deidre shot him a look of 'don't be like that, now'.  
"Of course. Crowley just seems..." she pressed her lips together and frowned with thought. "I can't put my finger on it. He reminds me of Adam, somehow. Something's going on with him but I can't for the life of me imagine what it could be." She cocked her head. "He's not on drugs or something, is he?"  
"Why the dickens would he let me in on it, if he was?" Aziraphale asked flusteredly. Was Crowley on drugs? He could be, anyone could, technically, but Crowley? He seemed so... bright. Then again, he had a past more checkered than a stained glass window and being the flash party-sort... But Crowley had opened up about so many other things, so why hold that information back? Perhaps he figured Aziraphale would find it unappealing? If so, he was right, whatever kind of boring old man that made Aziraphale...   
Deidre shrugged again. She tapped about on her laptop for a bit.  
"Dunno." Deidre smirked. "I'm not saying that's it. There's just something about him..." she trailed off, scrolling down her screen.   
"Tadfield hardly seems like the hotspot for acquiring that sort of goods," Aziraphale said dubiously, thinking to himself that there were plenty of things 'about' Crowley that Aziraphale knew of already, any recreational substances beyond alcohol not being one of them. Although, Crowley had made that quip about the ice cream van, but surely that had only been a joke? "Anyway, we mustn't gossip," he said sternly, as much to himself as to Deidre. Crowley had put so much faith Aziraphale the other night, imagine if Aziraphale had a slip of the tongue and let something out. It would awful... "Do you have that list?" he asked instead.   
The printer whirred and buzzed on its shelf behind him.   
"Way ahead of you," Deidre smiled.

Crowley was grumbling along a winding country road in his Bentley. Fuck all had been happening at the shop, he had not hired in Nugget for the day since he had no deliveries, there was, _apparently_ , only so much pestering one could bestow upon Anathema before finding oneself shooed out with a broom like a misbehaving cat and Aziraphale was at the old folks home, leaving Crowley with nowhere to go. He had considered popping around toe Marjorie's, but he was semi-sure she had a regular stopping by around this time, so he had decided against it. Besides, during the second round of toast at Aziraphale's place Sunday night, a bone-weary Crowley had ended up gulping down damn well nearly the entire bottle of fancy orange juice. Having promised to replace the bottle Crowley had figured he may as well go run a few errands and go for a bit of a spin. It had been a while since he had done that anyway, gone for a spin. The Bentley would appreciate getting its pulse up a bit, he figured and so had set about tearing up the tarmac of the Oxfordshire backroads. For a minute there it had been a lovely day for it too, an even layer of clouds in the sky, preventing any sudden bursts of sunlight from peeping out behind the road tress and blinding him. But then, of course, England being England, the clouds had drawn up closer, darkening in colour and unleashing the next Great Flood. Crowley knew how much he had paid for his tires and had initially refused to acknowledge the concept of rain - or the sheer amount of it. Was Aziraphale having a stressed-out breakdown right now? - as an issue, but then he had reached a particularly harsh bend, not far from some farm or other, and had nearly sent himself - and the car! Argh! - flying off the road, as he had next to no grip and even less vision through the water. Duly humbled, he decided to fuck off home in the torrent. He was nearing the village when suddenly something large and red appeared on the road, flailing about a few hundred yards ahead, its exact nature obscured by the rain. Crowley slowed down, unwilling to make sudden contact with... whatever the fuck it was.   
The blurry red blob turned out to be a child in a red rain poncho, who stalwartly, and rather irritatingly, refused to move off the road. As Crowley was forced to come to a halt, he recognised the face peering out of the hood as belonging to Moneypenny's son's friend. What was her name? Penny? Polly? No, that was her baby sister... Pinkie, maybe? Something weird and hippie, after that mother of hers had had a mental lapse of some kind in her youth.   
Another figure crawled out of the bushes by the side of the road. It was Moneypenny's kid himself, it turned out, once he had pulled the hood of his mac out of his face. He knocked on the window of the car, as if Crowley had the any chance at all of being unaware of the children.  
"Can we get a ride to the village?" the kid asked loudly through the glass while the remaining usual suspects also appeared. One of them was dragging a bike. "We can't see anything in this rain."  
Crowley did not need four soaked kids with muddy boots in his newly hoovered baby.   
"Sorry kids, got nowhere to put the bikes," he shrugged insincerely.   
"Don't worry about those, we'll just leave those here."   
_Of course you will...  
_ Crowley had half a mind to speed off, but Lower Tadfield was a stupidly small village and chances the kids were going to whine about it to someone. Such as Moneypenny who might then mention it to Aziraphale and as much Aziraphale could probably sympathise with Crowley's unwillingness to fill his car with muddy children, Crowley also knew that the blond would not actually do so, out of principle.   
"Alright. Get in," Crowley grumbled, leaning over to fold down the back of the front seat to make room for the soaked-through critters to pile themselves into the back seat. Moneypenny's kid - Alan? Who named their baby 'Alan' in this day and age?? - sat in the front with Crowley.   
"Cheers!"   
Crowley pulled a face and rolled his eyes.   
"Nice car," someone piped up in the back.   
"Yes, well, it was," Crowley grouched. "Has no one ever told you lot not to get in flash cars with strangers??"  
"Actually, yeah, my mum and dad day say something like that..." Speccy said unsurely.  
"You're not a stranger," Alan said, in an eerily calm and blasé tone suggesting that he meant to reassure Crowley. "Your name's Crowley. You're friends with Father A."   
"I bought flowers from you," the grubby kid supplied helpfully from the backseat. "Remember? I got flowers for my mum."  
Crowley was caught in between appreciating that that was all it took out in these parts, not wanting to ruin that precious, optimistic innocence - and wanting to do some serious commentary on how these meager scraps of info were nowhere near enough to go on, but was interrupted as Moneypenny's son continued;  
"I'll give you directions."  
"I can find my way back to the village," Crowley snarked, pulling out onto the road again.   
"But you don't know where all of us live?" Pinkie challenged from the back like Crowley was slow on the up-take. "Do you?"   
"Who says I'm taking all of you home??" Crowley grumbled. "'S'not like you can get any wetter than you already are."   
"You can just take me to the church office," Alan said. It seemed like a concession to make things easier for Crowley, but there was something almost demanding hiding somewhere in his voice.   
_Creepy, little fuck...  
_ "Who says I'm going to the church office??" Crowley continued to protest.  
"Aren't you?"   
_That's not the bloody point I was trying to make, you little shit -!  
_ "Brian and Pepper's stop is up Wood Road."  
Crowley sagged in his seat.  
"Good for them."  
"Is it actually true you were in a fight at the fair?" Speccy asked, impervious to Crowley's snappy tone.   
Crowley blinked.  
"Fight?"  
"Yeah. Heard you were in a fight and Father A had to break it up."  
Great. So that was what the Chinese whispers had taken away from that day. _Crowley_ had gotten in a fight and Aziraphale had stopped it. Of course. You saw what you expected to see... People expected Crowley to behave the way he looked and Aziraphale to keep order. Maybe it was just as well... it sure took some heat off the the real reason behind the scuffle.   
"Eh, some drunkard who couldn't mind his own business," he shrugged casually. "He started it, mind."   
"Good thing Father A was there," Grubby said. "Claude's the size of a house. He'd have snapped you in two."  
"I can hold my own!" Crowley sputtered indignantly. "I didn't need help. It was just Father Fusspot who didn't think it was 'proper' or whatever."  
"Yeah... You're not exactly proper," Pinkie noted concedingly. She shot Crowley a dirty look in the mirror. "Hitting on anything in a skirt. 'Cluding my mum," she sulked, crossing her arms over her chest. "Women don't appreciate that, y'know. Creep," she added.   
"And has you mum by any chance ever issued any statements about getting in cars with creeps?" Crowley shot back. In the rear view mirror he watched the girl fold her arms tighter and scowl harder.   
"Your mum's only mad anyway 'cos, like... she's your mum or something," Grubby said, clearly not quite grasping the larger picture but nonetheless seeing a pattern. "She came around the other day to see my mum and all they talked about was you," he said, leaning his elbows on the backrest of Crowley's seat. "She thinks you're proper lush too," he said, wrinkling his nose slightly. "Even though you got in a fight."  
Crowley pursed his lips irritatedly.  
"Well, I'm glad my violent tendencies don't entirely cancel out my good looks..."

20 minutes later, as Crowley had rid his poor Bentley the other kids and he and the remaining boy exited the car outside the church office, the rain had stopped. Aziraphale's - predicted - near-panic attack inside the church office, however, had not.   
"I'll call the sergeant, he can go up there, take a look!" Moneypenny's voice could be heard saying as her son opened the door and slipped inside while Crowley rummaged about on the back seat for his bag containing two bottles of fresh orange juice. The bag now had a big, muddy welly print on it. Nice.   
"It'll be a disaster, I just _know_ it will!" Aziraphale said hysterically while poor Moneypenny tried valiantly to push a mug of tea into his desperately fiddling hands as Crowley poked his head in.   
"We put up that tarp, it'll hold, don't worry," Moneypenny said, with the firmness of someone who was mainly saying that because they had to keep pushing a way of thinking, lest they themselves lose faith.   
"What do _you_ want?" Aziraphale fussed as he realised Crowley was stood there.   
Crowley held up the bag of juice bottles and was about to reply when Alan piped up;  
"Mum, can I open your letters?"   
Moneypenny sighed, visibly but not audibly.   
"Of course pet, if you'd like," she said distractedly.   
"I would," the boy said, pulling a letter opener out of a jar on the desk. "I gotta practice for when I'm grown-up." He stuck the opener under the flap of an envelope and pulled. The envelope nearly ripped clean in halves. "See?" the boy said. "I need practice. It's not easy."  
"No. No, it isn't," Aziraphale whined tiredly, sagging against his desk. "Did you want something, Crowley?" he snapped with hard-won politeness.   
Crowley continued to hold up his bag of orange juice like it might save his life.  
"Just thought I'd get it over with and pay my debts," he said suavely.   
Aziraphale looked at him like he was both bothersome and speaking a different language. Then realisation dawned on him.   
"Oh. Oh, yes, that. That's very nice of you, dear, just put it wherever -" he muttered distractedly. "Deidre would you -?"  
Moneypenny waved her mobile at him while punching in a number before pressing the phone to her ear.   
"Did you eat yet?" Crowley asked while Moneypenny started greasing up Shedwall on the phone.   
Aziraphale looked like he was unlikely to fit in a single bite.  
"I've had about... a hundred biscuits and five cups of tea..." he fussed in a low voice, still wringing his hands and clearly trying to listen in on the phone call.   
Crowley clicked his tongue.   
"Your roof will be fine," he said while Moneypenny had to put in good work to get the sergeant to cooperate, it seemed, and her son destroyed another envelope with loud 'ritsch' "C'mon." He grabbed Aziraphale by the elbow. The blond looked confused and reluctant.  
"No! What - why??"  
"We're going for a walk. I've been told that's what grown-ups do sometimes," Crowley argued.  
Aziraphale hemmed and hawed while Moneypenny apparently had an unusually argumentative sergeant on her hands.  
"Would you like an apple?" her son suddenly asked from her desk, while he struggled his way out of his mac.   
Crowley quirked a brow.   
"Don't mind if I do."  
He caught an apple launched at him while holding out his other hand towards Moneypenny gesturing for the phone. She simultaneously handed it to him and made a noice of protest.  
"Send over Pugsley." Crowley said loudly into the phone. _You stupid, old sod...  
_ "Ah, but yer honour -"  
"Now." Crowley hung up the phone and handed it back to its owner while taking a bite out of his apple. It was sour as all get-out. "That's that done. We're going," he announced, strutting towards the door and waving Aziraphale along with his apple.   
"Adam... Where did you get those apple?" Moneypenny asked.   
The kid looked like he was not actually ashamed but at least felt vaguely guilty about that fact.  
"They're just hanging there," he argued. "They'll fall on the ground."  
Moneypenny groaned.   
"Adam..!"  
Aziraphale grabbed the bag with the orange juice and nudged Crowley out through the door.   
"This isn't a spectator's sport," he noted primly while Moneypenny rounded on her son.  
"I love watching other people get in trouble!" Crowley argued, nonetheless letting himself be pushed along.   
"I can vividly imagine so."  
"'Specially since people apparently reckon _I_ got in a fight at the fair," Crowley continued conversationally through his apple-munching as they strolled across to the rectory. He waits outside while a frowning Aziraphale put the orange juice on the hallway table and came back out.   
"You did. Technically," he said, visibly squirming at the half-truth as they drifted towards the village green. His eyes darted about, at all times avoiding Crowley and his chin pulled in, creating what had to be the cutest roll of flesh known to mankind. Which was a difficult thought to cope with since Crowley had officially decided to try and get over himself and move on. Which in turn was difficult when your entire wank-bank had been couped by Aziraphale looking all fluffy'n'huffy.   
Honestly, Crowley wanted to behave. He _wanted_ that long, honest talk of theirs to snap him out of it, wanted to lust after someone less complicated and off-limits, but apparently not even the desire to let Aziraphale be happy, or at the very least contended in his relative sense of safety, was enough of a bucket of a cold water to douse the primal urge to grope the blond's squishy-looking middle. And other parts of him, but last night's... private viewing had been mainly about soft, wobbly tummy that could be kneaded and snuggled and dry-humped...  
"I was trying to -" Crowley started to sputter, tearing himself away from a very appealing re-run. "Guh. Nevermind. It's fine. Don't think I could withstand the blast of every mind in the entire parish being blown if they all realised that their kindly, old priest had gotten in a physical altercation," he added. A crude jab, sure, but Aziraphale was blood asking for it in that moment.   
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air.   
"I shan't dignify that with a comment," he said snootily. "And I didn't start it!" he argued petulantly.   
Crowley munched on his apple.  
"So you say," he muttered, muffledly, through a mouthful.   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Yes, well," he said, adjusting his clothes. "You generally put out an air of being nothing but trouble, I suppose..." He cleared his throat. This was awkward. Honestly, he did not even have to ask this question, but he knew he was going to anyway; "People have also been wondering if perhaps... you're on... you know." He lowered his voice. "Drugs..."   
Crowley snorted dryly.   
"Oh, really? Have _people_ , now?"   
"I just thought it would be nice for you to know, since the list of your perceived sins appears to be steadily growing..." Aziraphale noted innocently, his fingertips going ice cold.  
"A'ight, well, you can tell whoever's been concerning themselves," Crowley said dryly. "that they don't have to worry that I'll bring any wild-child habits to their pretty little village." He quirked a brow at the half-eaten apple in his hand. "Been done with that for years."  
"Oh?" Aziraphale's fingers warmed up marginally. Crowley had mentioned something about the home not being quite... child-friendly on that front either, so that made sense, he supposed.  
"Yeah, I used to fancy a bit of speed, me" Crowley shrugged. "But once you realise it's a fifty-fifty gamble if there's any bad shit in the stuff, that you didn't bargain for, mind, it takes the... rebelliously charm out of it," he noted casually as they slowly made their way along the edge of the green.   
Aziraphale hummed.  
"Well, I wouldn't know," he said. "I found whiskey when I was at school and stuck with that."  
Crowley sniffed and buried the maximal possible number of fingers on his free hand - three fingers, that was - in the pocket of his jeans, sauntering along, still limping ever so slightly on every other step or so, Aziraphale realised.   
"Yes, well, whiskey didn't send you off to hospital with blood pissing out of your nose like an open tap and three doctors stood over you frowning and shaking their heads... so who's the real fool here?" Crowley muttered grimly, before taking another large bite of apple. "Never trust your dealer," he said, pointing a stern finger at Aziraphale.   
Aziraphale nodded bewilderedly. Duly noted, he supposed.   
"Might want to put that away for a moment," he said, nodding across the green where Arpee was marching down the street, Eleanor scurrying along on her tiny legs beside him.  
The lines around Crowley's mouth softened.  
"Reckon he's missing something?" he grinned, shamelessly munching on his snack.   
"Five quid," Aziraphale said tersely.   
Crowley chuckled deep in his throat.   
"Would think you'd have your priestly knickers in more of a bunch over stolen apples," he said.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"The only person who thinks Arpee's apples are _that_ special is Arpee," he sniffed.  
Crowley considered the apple in his hand.  
"Y'know... I never could see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and bad anyway," he said, rubbing the untouched back of the fruit against the knee of his jeans. "Why was the Lord so keen to keep that to himself?"  
Aziraphale quirked a brow in thought.   
"Well... It must be bad," he said. "Or it wouldn't have been a problem." He snorted. "It's not like it's really done us much good on the whole has it?" He eyed Crowley's apple. "Is that even edible or are you just making a point?" he asked, his face scrunching up by proxy. "It's not quite the season yet."  
"It's like a lemon," Crowley said amusedly. "And that other thing - that's 'cos we can't actually agree on what's what. And then we ignore what's good and bad to show people that our good is gooder than theirs by doing stuff we should think is bad but think is good 'cos it's in opposition to someone else's bad."  
Aziraphale raised a brow thoughtfully.  
"When you put it like that I'm not sure that apple even worked anyway..." he said. "Perhaps that's what the Lord really wanted to keep us from; the potential to willfully do wrong rather than just not knowing any better..."  
"So why'd he get so pissy in the first place if they didn't know any better?" Crowley asked, still munching. "If he wanted to keep them naïvely innocent, why be angry when they were just being exactly that?"  
"The Lord had told them it was bad. Taking advice from someone who knows and knowing on your own are two different things," Aziraphale argued. He tutted. "Perhaps there's something to be said about thinking something is a good idea and then rage quitting."  
Crowley cocked his head and pursed his lips.  
"Are you saying that the omniscient Lord is fallible? That he cocked up and went 'oh, fuck it, let it burn if it wants, Daddy's having a glass of prosecco'??"   
Aziraphale could not help but laugh.  
"That's how I feel on any given Tuesday trying to run a parish, so I can only imagine what trying to keep an entire planet in check is like," he giggled. Then he cleared his throat. "Perhaps there was something to be won from it, at some point in the future. Maybe there's a purpose for it. The Lord works in inef-"  
"Are you going to say 'ineffable'?" Crowley groaned like it was the most tedious thing he had ever endured.  
Aziraphale's eyes darted around the green.  
"Possibly..?" he half-asked innocently.  
"God, you're a prat..." Crowley groaned. "But then why get mad if they were doing what he wanted from them?? That's just gaslighting!" he continued indignantly, tossing the core of his apple into a nearby bush. A cat came flying out, looking two seconds away from a heart attack.  
"They had been told not to," Aziraphale said, once the cat had fled to somewhere less likely to have food remains raining down from above.  
"But why even make the damn tree?? Bit unsubtle, don't you think? Tree in the middle of a garden with a 'don't touch' sign... Why not put it on the top of a mountain? Or on the moon?? Or why even create it in the first place??" Crowley ranted  
"As I said, perhaps the Lord had a plan -" Aziraphale started.  
"But why get mad if there's a plan - oh, for fuck's sake, why am I even trying to make sense of this, it's just running in circles!" Crowley interrupted. He threw his hands in the air and then pushed his glasses out of the way and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "How do you bear it?" he asked.  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Which? Innate sin? Christ died to rid us of that, so -"  
Crowley's hands dropped, not looking the least bit appreciative of Aziraphale's wise-cracking.   
"You're a smart bloke," Crowley said, nonetheless speaking in a manner that would suggest otherwise. "How do you put up with the circular arguments and the nonsense and the bullshit??You're so clever! How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid??" he half-yelled, throwing his hands in the air.   
Aziraphale blinked. He had to admit he felt a bit affronted by that.  
"I forgive you for that one," he said stiffly.  
Crowley groaned and shook his head again, clearly as vexed as Aziraphale felt.  
"I can do too much good for people as I am to just give up on it. It's an old story anyway and it's been translated more than once. Perhaps they got a few details wrong," he said primly.  
Crowley gave up on growling under his breath and leaned back in, curiously quirking a brow.  
"Are you saying the Book of the Lord is _untruthful_?" he pried, eyes narrowing.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"It was written by people. _Erare humanum est_ , as demonstrated from a very early stage and onward," he countered.  
"But you still preach it," Crowley noted.  
"Oh, I'm sure they got the gist of it right. Occasionally," Aziraphale said. "But the Lord's Great Plan is ineffable, as I keep reminding you, and thusly unable to be truly put into words, so they're bound to have made a hash of it here and there when they wrote the Good Book."  
Crowley leaned back in his chair and considered Aziraphale carefully.  
"You are so full of crap," he said, smirking. "But it's different flavour of crap, I'll give you that."  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Flattery will get you anywhere," he said sardonically. He sighed, looking around. They had strolled along the edge of the village green and were now facing directly down the road leading into the woods and towards Upper. "I should be getting back to work. You can't just keep coming in to steal me at any time you fancy," he chastised.   
"You're the one who grabbed me and ran, 'cos Moneypenny's kid can't keep his thieving, little hands to himself and off Arby's apples," Crowley noted. "I only stopped by to drop off the little shit and pay my debts."  
"You didn't have to get me two bottles," Aziraphale said as they slowly drifted back towards the church. "You only finished one and it had already been opened."  
"I always pay interest," Crowley said with an enigmatic pout. "Easiest way to avoid any awkward situations..."  
"You've paid your interest now," Aziraphale said. "But perhaps it was time you went back and paid your flower shop some _attention_ instead."  
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"I've got the box... Running a flower shop on a Monday is bloody boring," he sulked.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"What did you expect out here?"  
"I don't know," Crowley whined. "I just upped and fucking left, didn't I?"  
"From what?" Aziraphale inquired curiously. There always seemed to be so much random chatting to be done with Crowley, like they were working their way through an endless list of every single silly, little, unimportant topic in the history of the World. And it all felt like it somehow mattered in the moment they were discussing it, but it made getting an angle to ask about more personal stuff a bit trickier. At least without getting Crowley either drunk or tapping into some... _very_ heavy topics.   
Crowley frowned.  
"From... Mayfair?"   
Aziraphale hummed. Mayfair. Upscale. Very 'new money'. Very Crowley.   
"Where you did... what exactly?"  
Crowley stuck his jaw out to one side in a baffled grimace. It was cute, frankly put.   
_No, it's not, Aziraphale, don't be ridiculous...  
_ "Did I not say?" Crowley asked.   
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"Oh. I owned a night club."  
How Mayfair.   
"Unsurprising," Aziraphale conceded.   
Crowley smirked.   
"Yeah, well."  
"Successfully or..?"  
Crowley sputtered.  
"Everything I do is a success!"  
 _Except snogging you, which honestly evens out a lot of my wins...  
_ "And you got bored of that, or..?"  
"Yeah." Crowley shrugged. "Sold the place. Blew that money on the shop and my new house. Needed a change of scenery."  
"More like a change of planet, I'd imagine," Aziraphale commented as the startled cat from before came slinking back towards the bush Crowley had chased it out of and a couple of teenagers on bikes drove past, one of them loudly complaining that he had promised to help his uncle sheering sheep the following day.   
Crowley snorted.  
"Different solar system, it feels like sometimes..." he said. When Aziraphale turned to look at him, he realised Crowley's eyes was looking directly at him.   
"Well, you seem to have made the transition without too many hitches," Aziraphale offered. "Business is running, by itself at the minute, you seem to have settled well enough..."  
"Oh yes, I've settled. The entire village already think I pick fights and do coke," Crowley snarked.   
"It's only half the village," Aziraphale mended. "Plenty of folks like you well enough." He smiled smugly. "I suppose there's something to be said about socialising with the parish priest."  
Crowley scowled.  
"And Jesus wept, you love it," he groaned.   
"I merely appreciate being able to help my neighbours get along peacefully!" Aziraphale huffed.    
"You like the power. The attention. Having all those people sat on their arses, paying attention to you every single afternoon," Crowley hissed. For a moment Aziraphale thought the redhead was about to burst another vessel and that several hours of talking things out had been all for nought, but then he spotted a certain wrinkle across Crowley's nose that flat-out refused to allow anyone to take it seriously. "With your little preachings," Crowley heckled on. "Though fuck knows what you've left to preach about anyways."  
Aziraphale frowned. They were on the gravel driveway now, so he fished out his cigarettes to stall for time before he would have to go back in.   
"What do you mean? You've seen the Bible. Rather up-close too, if I recall," he said, nodding at Crowley's sideburn tattoo. "It's a large book."  
Crowley hummed like a joke he had made had just fallen flat.  
"Yeah, but y'know... A lot of the _classics_ seem to be off the table with you."  
"What do you mean the 'classics' are 'off the table'??" Aziraphale asked bewilderedly, lighting up his cigarette and holding out his lighter towards Crowley.   
"Just... y'know. The true stables of a good priest... like abortion and... _other_ misdemeanors on which the Church tends to frown..." Crowley said innocently, blowing out a puff of smoke.   
Aziraphale cleared his throat.   
"I'm perfectly capable of reminding everyone that life is sacred and precious..." he said, drawing up his shoulders and most certainly not pouting.   
"Angel," Crowley interrupted him, holding up his lit cigarette in a demand for silence. "You're one helluvan old hypocrite, but not that kind of hypocrite."  
It was said so matter-of-factly. If there was any sort of intention behind it, Aziraphale was too naïve to see it, nor was there any sarcasm to be found as far as he could tell. _Angel_. No teasing, no 'gotcha', just... trust. He had figured it meant some misbehaving creature, easily let astray, and perhaps it had, initially, but this was not it.   
"Am I not?" he asked. The question had plagued him, in several separate stages, and now it seemed like the opportunity to ask it had finally come.   
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"Nah," he said with finality after a moment, shaking his head and elaborating no further.

Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair frustratedly for the umpteenth time within the hour and removed his reading glasses, dropping them, somewhat ungently, on the desk. He and Deidre had been going over more grant applications all afternoon which had quickly quenched the precious, optimistic bubble Crowley had left in Aziraphale's stomach. Feeling as though he ought to have an extra crack at it, Aziraphale had offered to take another look at the applications after dinner and try to write another one. So far he had written and deleted what had to about 8,000 words, on his old desktop computer, in a continuous circle of waffling on for ages about the grievances of St Dwynwen, only to feel like he had said too much and gone for too long, delete everything, try to make it shorter, find it not quite detailed or persuasive enough, adding a few key details and ending up with a result that was once again far too long, the entire thing typed at painstakingly slow speed since he had never actually pulled himself together and gone for that typing course in uni, a decision which he stubbornly refused to acknowledge as a mistake.   
Having a whiskey and sulking seemed like a cop-out, so at present time he was merely glowering at the screen, wrecking his brain and coming up short. He thought of Crowley. Which was completely normal, they had spoken earlier that day..!   
Crowley had owned a nightclub. Aziraphale was quite pleased with how little that had surprised him. He had read Crowley quite right, it seemed. At least in that regard... What did he say the name was? Did he say? Aziraphale pursed is lips. He was feeling curious now. What sort of club had it been? The exact echo of Crowley's personal style or perhaps something a little less classy, more wild, like Crowley's youth had by all indications been? Frowning lightly, Aziraphale abandoned his hopeless grant application and instead put his glasses back on and went to click the little blue 'e' which would, if physically possible, have been covered in cobwebs by how much - or little - use it got. Wensleydale had very kindly set up the thing so that it automatically went to the search... program, once it had started up. The boy had mentioned that it was terribly slow and that Aziraphale could benefit from using a quicker option, but Aziraphale saw no need to stress about getting used to a new thing wot with how little he use he had for it. He felt no real spite towards the slowness of the thing. Or usually he did not, but right now he was feeling just a tad eager about snooping into Crowley's past. He scoffed as he could just imagine what Crowley would have to say about it.  
 _And once again your nose and my business make an acquaintance.  
_ The thing finally felt like making itself useful and Aziraphale began typing, biting his lip lightly.  
"C... l-e-y... night... club..."   
Hitting enter, he leaned back in his seat and waited, thumbs twiddling.   
After a moment or two, the usual list of links presented itself. 'Anthony Crawley Sound Club', the first one read and it . That sounded promising enough, Aziraphale figured. It did say 'Anthony" on Crowley's letter box at the cottage, although when he had inquired about that, Crowley had shrugged it off and said that 'everyone needed a first name', but he was far more likely to respond to 'Crowley', which had made sense since Crowley was truly terrible with names.   
Aziraphale pushed his glasses further up his nose and carefully clicked the link. It took him to a website that even he could tell was of an older date, with a completely black background and garish yellow lettering. A headline in a poorly chosen font repeated the link name and below it, a video, or the potential for one, was shown. Perhaps a promotional video or some such. Crowley was most definitely the sort of that kind of thing, Aziraphale thought, nodding to himself. He clicked the white triangle and folded his hands in his lap, preparing himself to be educated on the devious past doings of Anthony Crowley.  
After about thirty seconds of slowly cocking his head further and further to the left, he had slammed both hands over the screen with an undignified squeak and had kicked the wall switch under the desk, killing the damn thing off, grant application be damned.   
_Goodness, Lord..!_  
'Devious' had been an apt choice of words...  
Well. That was an image that was certain to stick to his retinas for a while...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shall be a cookie to whomstever can correctly guess what just happened there q: (its not that hard i guess lol)


	23. Chapter 23

_Sunday, 16th July_

Aziraphale was perched neatly in a café chair, outside on the wide pavement of a nice, semi-busy street in Oxford, waiting for his order to be sent out to his table and his mind was wandering.   
_Anthony Crawley_...   
It could have been someone else. Easily. The clip had been old and grainy and that little squiggle by the actor's ear could have been anything. Yes. Surely it had not been Crowley. The similarity in name was just a coincidence. Just like the bright auburn hair and the strong profile...  
Speaking of that auburn hair -  
"Crowley?"   
Aziraphale had called out the name before he realised what he was doing - what _was_ he doing?! He had been too embarrassed and, frankly, _distraught_ to face Crowley since Monday night and had done some grade A dodging to avoid doing so! - and immediately prayed he had not been heard, but of course he had. The dark-clad, slender figure looked up, scanning the area to find whoever had called out and Aziraphale figured he might as well go all out and raised a hand to wave. Head cocked and a lilt in his step, Crowley slinked across the road, a large, expensive-looking shopping bag in hand while his smile grew.  
"Fancy running into you here!" Aziraphale ground out with a wide, slightly panicked smile while _Anthony Crawley_ flashed before his mind's eye like a neon sign in a tacky sans-serif font.   
"I could say the same to you..." Crowley noted, the slightest twang to his voice. It was flattering, Aziraphale supposed, that the redhead was clearly not quite pleased with being avoided, but that was a whole other story, and one that he was not about to tell. "Just keeping my wardrobe crisp," Crowley continued, shaking his bag. He dropped into the seat across from Aziraphale. "You?"  
"Waiting for a spot of nibbles," Aziraphale said pointing to the café, as if it was not bloody obvious that he would be waiting for an order since he was sitting there..! "I'm in town to collect those of books of mine that needed a spot of TLC," he added quickly, gesturing to the old-fashioned midwife's bag that sat by his feet.  
Crowley made a noise and nodded.  
"You mentioned those..." Aziraphale had indeed mentioned them. One evening he had cited packing them securely as his reason to hole up, away from any redheads who might or might not have... certain former jobs on their resume. "Who do you go to for that sorta thing?" Crowley asked.   
"Oh, there's a very skilled restoration business here in town," Aziraphale said. "They work with the universities whenever something in their collections needs tending to, and a few museums too, I believe."  
"Sounds pricy," Crowley said. "Didn't realise a priest's salary could cover that sort of thing."  
"I, uh... I have some inheritance that my father left me," Aziraphale said. "I only tap into it for emergencies... Or big expenses like when my car needs repairing. And in the case of my books, it is _well_ worth it!" he finished emphatically. Before he had a chance to fully explain the absolute necessity of preserving his 18th century King James Bible, a waitress appeared with his tea and apple crumble. Crowley stuck a hand out to stop her before she could vanish inside again.  
"Mind if I join you?" he casually asked Aziraphale.   
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"Please, do."  
Crowley ordered himself a black coffee and slumped into his seat, one arm craned backwards over the back of the chair. An unbidden image of a skinny, auburn-haired man, arms pulled back at a similar angle and tied to a chair, writhing and squirming, burst into Aziraphale's head and had him squeaking panically against the rim of his teacup that he had just raised to his lips.  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"Burn yourself?" he asked.  
Aziraphale lowered the cup slightly and swallowed hard.  
"Oh, nono, I'm quite fine," he said, staring stiffly into his tea. _  
_Crowley's black coffee arrived. He smiled at the waitress, did that damnable nose wrinkle. The waitress smiled back, shot him an extra look over her shoulder. Aziraphale fought the urge to openly sulk but of course pulled himself together. Priest or not, he had no business pouting just because Crowley was flirting a bit. Besides, he should not be feeling any of this. Better Crowley flirt with someone else than with Aziraphale. And anyway, Crowley had said himself that he had weaned off women over the years, so it was not even serious.  
Which did not matter! At all. So what if it was all empty flirting? Whether or not Crowley was serious about it had no bearing on anything!   
_Pull yourself together, Aziraphale...  
_ "Are you alright?" Crowley asked, quirking a brow.   
"Certainly!" Aziraphale said, possibly a little too loudly. "Tip-top! Absolutely tickety-boo!"   
Crowley frowned incredulously.  
"Tickety-boo..?" he repeated disbelievingly.  
Aziraphale fed himself a bite of apple crumble and ignored Crowley's look of shock at his choice of words. It had perhaps been a little too enthusiastic, but there was nothing for it besides sticking to this story now. It was a very nice cake.  
"How's the cable net project coming along?" he asked, dapping his mouth with his napkin. "I ran into Norman, he mentioned that the application for financial support for the project is now all in order?"   
Crowley hummed into his coffee.  
"Yup. Once we get the all-clear, we're ready to make the big call," he said, slumping further back into his chair and stretching leisurely.   
"How very exciting," Aziraphale said politely.   
"Is the rectory signed up?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale shuddered. Yes, goodness, all he needed was better internet to show him videos of someone who could potentially be Crowley...   
"No," he said. "I didn't think... The church office is," he offered as the faintest trace of disappointment could be seen in the left corner of Crowley's mouth. "It could be very handy for work. So Deidre says, anyway... But more... privately I don't see what use a priest would have of state-of-the-art internet." What he already had certainly had done him very little good...  
Crowley shrugged.   
"I suppose..." he said, looking around. Something diagonally behind Aziraphale seemed to catch his eye for a moment.   
Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, chewing on a bite of apple crumble. Two men, on each their end of the middle-aged spectrum, one spectacled and thin-haired, the other rotund and greyed, and a younger women in somewhat garish clothes, that Aziraphale supposed constituted fashion these day, were chatting a little ways down the street. The young women cast a glance down the road in the general direction of the café.  
"Someone you know?" Aziraphale asked as the trio seemed to hold Crowley's attention.   
Crowley snapped out of it.  
"Nah." He sipped his coffee. "So your dad left you money?"   
Aziraphale swallowed another bite.  
"Yes... Not a king's ransom exactly, but just a sort of... emergency funding? A bit of financial independence from Mother, I suppose? For college books and such. My time was before the age of tuition fees, mind..." Crowley muttered something that sounded like 'grandpa' against the rim of his cup. Aziraphale ignored it. "Paid for my car as well... And the continued care for my books. I'm starting to see the... bottom of the treasure chest, I suppose, so I've started working my way through my collection, to make sure it's in good condition the day the funds dry up..."  
That was an awful lot of divulging about his financial situation, he felt, but Crowley had money, right? The store he had been to did in no way cater to people of Aziraphale's... shape and size and thusly was not a place he frequented, but he was aware that it was leagues above high street grade. Money was a lot less awkward of a subject when you actually had it...  
Crowley certainly did not seem bothered. At least not by the subject of money, but he did look a bit concerned.  
"What'll you do once it runs out?"  
Aziraphale shrugged.   
"Like I said, as long as my books are in good condition, all is well."  
"What about your car?" Crowley asked. "Old pot of shit that it is. You gonna rely on congregation contributions for that if it goes belly-up?"  
Aziraphale squirmed. He loathed the idea passionately, going around with his hat in his hand, asking other people to dole out money for him... All manners of people had good and honest need for financial support in some form, but... he had a hard time seeing himself as one of those.   
"I only ever really use it for my clerical duties," he said. "so I suppose, you could say, if they want... the job done..."  
Crowley appeared to be watching the chatting people again. Perhaps he found the young lady attractive, Aziraphale thought mopingly.  
"There's always the nearest street corner if you don't fancy begging," he said absentmindedly.   
_Or unpleasant-looking pornographic video films...  
_ "Y-you'd know, I suppose..." Aziraphale stuttered, trying his best to purge that certain image from his mind. Crowley looked so calm, sitting there, sipping his coffee and joking about crass topics... Deidre had asked if Crowley was alright and Aziraphale had assumed as much. One could certainly be forgiven for thinking so with the way Crowley carried himself. But... that video had perhaps drawn his assumption into question. Supposing it really had been him.   
"But, like, you'll be a'ight? Later on, I mean?" Crowley asked casually.  
Aziraphale nodded.   
"I should be, yes," he said valiantly. "I have good parishioners."  
Crowley looked like he wanted to add something to that, but then he bit his lip. He shifted a bit in his seat with a pained wrinkle between his brows. The way his face scrunched up in obvious discomfort was so terribly like the video...  
"Are you quite well?" Aziraphale asked, swallowing around his suddenly dry tongue. He tried to remedy it with a sip of tea.  
"Yeah, yeah, s'just my hip..." Crowley muttered, rearranging himself in a fluffy of long limbs.  
"Still paining you?" Aziraphale tutted. "Oh, dear. I am sorry to have caused you so much discomfort," he offered.   
Crowley waved him off.  
"I've had much worse," he said.   
_Well, it certainly would seem so..!  
_ "Since you're here," Aziraphale said, his mouth still oddly dry since the tea seemed to be doing nothing at all, rising abruptly from his chair. "Would you mind terribly... Watch my bag, for a moment, yes? While I nip off to the powder room... I'd much rather not be putting my bag on the bathroom floor, you see..."  
Crowley looked surprised.   
"Yeah, nah, sure, no problem."  
Aziraphale scuttled off, through the open café door and into the small bathroom at the back. It was a stall-less, one-room affair and blessedly vacant. Aziraphale quickly locked the door behind him and looked at his own harried face in the mirror. He really was at a loss as to what to make of that video - or of the small snippet he had - quite accidentally! - seen. It had looked so... real. Crowley - or _Crawley_ , as it were - had looked highly distressed, and cringing to himself as he recalled the rather disturbing images, Aziraphale could hardly blame him.  
His rubbed his palms together, realising they had gone sticky with sweat. He pulled off his ring in order to wash his hands. In what was probably a subconscious attempt to calm himself, he tried his luck with his old sleight of hand trick. The ring clattered to the floor and he went diving for it. He would need to get back into practice! Straightening again, and narrowly avoiding knocking over the rubbish bin, he looked at himself in the mirror, then down at his ring again. Could that perhaps be it? Yes. Surely. Pornography was known for rather exaggerated theatric performances, he was not quite so sheltered that he was unaware of that. Alright, so maybe he had been past forty when he found out, as he, at the bishop's behest, had had to chaperone the new sex ed program at the secondary school in Norton, which had been viscerally, emotionally painful for everyone involved, but the truth of it still stood!  
A much happier Aziraphale left the bathroom, the video continuing to replay itself in his mind, but his focus greatly changed as he briskly pushed the front door open.   
He returned to his seat, smiling warmly at Crowley, who in return quirked a brow.  
"Was that a... very nice trip to loo?"   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He primly helped himself to one last bite of his apple crumble.   
"That'll be me all done, then," he said, from behind his napkin.   
Crowley drained his coffee.   
"Right. Did you pay yet?" he asked, nodding at the last few crumbs on Aziraphale plate.   
Aziraphale nodded.   
"I did, yes, when I ordered."  
"Right." Crowley managed to somehow look both endlessly elegant and masculine as he swung himself out of his chair and snatched up his shopping bag. "I'm gonna go settle my debts," he said. "You wait here."  
Aziraphale noted the way Crowley appeared to be expecting them to be moving onward through the afternoon together from here on. Somewhat arrogant, he thought huffily. Or tried to. Truth be told, it was nice. Especially now that he had figured out how that terribly unappetising act had been performed. Or sort of figured it out, anyway.  
Being away from the village together felt... refreshing. As if that would mean anything at all. What could they possibly have to hide from the village?? Not that they were out here _hiding_ anything! But all the same... seeing their friendliness exist outside the snow globe bubble of Lower Tadfield somehow made it feel more real. Less like village socialising dynamics and more like... just socialising.   
Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment and sighed up against the brightly shining sun. All in all, a very successful afternoon, this.

Crowley was trying to pry his brushed steel cardholder back into his back pocket when he heard the sound of commotion followed by Aziraphale yelping loudly outside.  
"Stop! Stop them! My books!"  
Crowley grabbed his bag and quickly stepped outside to Aziraphale, who stood on the pavement some paces down the street, holding his middle and staring hopeless down the road.  
"What happened?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale spun, with a panicked look on his face.  
"They - they stole my books!" he howled, pointing down the street. "I-I had just picked up my bag when they just came out of nowhere and grabbed it!"  
Crowley looked down the street.  
"Who?"  
"Th-those - those people!" Aziraphale wailed, pointing at a spot across the street. "That - that lady that you were looking at earlier!"  
"Did they hurt you?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale grappled at the front of his t-shirt.  
"Ooh, never mind that!" Aziraphale fussed. "They took my books! We have to call the police! Do you have your mobile phone?? Might I borrow it?"  
Crowley shushed him gently.  
"Valuable those books?" he asked calmly.  
Aziraphale frowned and started desperately patting down Crowley's jeans in search of his mobile.  
"Why do you ask?" he said frustratedly. "Crowley! We need to call the -"  
"What about the bag? Crowley asked, unfazed. "Pricy old thing or..?"  
Aziraphale growled, actually growled.  
"No, to Hell with the stupid bag, I just needed to something to carry the books in! What matters is the books -!"  
"Oh, you mean these books?" Crowley asked nonchalantly, opening his shopping bag. On top of his new jeans lay Aziraphale's books, safe and unscathed.  
Aziraphale stared.  
"My... my books..." he stuttered. "You took them... why?" He looked up at Crowley, wide-eyed and mouth slightly gaping. "When??"  
Crowley shrugged.  
"That bag of yours just looked too damn exciting," he said. "I figured it might cause trouble, with that lot hanging around like vultures, so I took the liberty of rearranging a few things while you were on the can."  
Aziraphale stared from the books to Crowley's face and back.   
Crowley smirked.  
"So. I guess we could call the cops about your bag," he said. "But if we went for a calm stroll in the general direction the young madam took off in, I'm sure we'll come across it, dumped somewhere."  
Aziraphale snapped back to reality and shrugged.  
"Never mind that," he said. "I still have my books..." He showered Crowley in a smile to rival the sun. "Thanks to you."  
Crowley shrugged and ordered his cock to not even _think_ about it.  
"Psh, thanks me for nothing."  
Aziraphale sputtered.  
"Nothing?? Not nothing!" he said. He pursed his lips in thought. "All that excitement has left me a bit peckish..." he then said. "How about if I bought you dinner? I know it's perhaps a bit early but I could really -"  
"Yeah. Yep. Sounds good," Crowley said way too quickly. He caught himself and cleared his throat. "Wanna nip back to my car and lock these up before we go?" he asked holding up the bag.  
Aziraphale glowed, grabbing the bag from Crowley and clinging to it like it was his firstborn child.  
"Oh, really? That would be brilliant. I'd feel much more relaxed that way!  
Crowley nonchalantly gestured in the direction of his Bentley and took off.  
"I really am so grateful for your foresight," Aziraphale said as they strolled along.  
Crowley tutted.  
"Turning tricks, you meet a few different kinds of people," he said with a shrug. "Figured those three were up to something... Seemed like a dick move to let it go unhandled. It's not like it would've made a difference if nothing had happened."  
Aziraphale made a noise of concession.  
"But what was in the bag?" he asked with a frown. "There was definitely something still in that bag."  
"The brick the cafe used to prop open the door," Crowley snickered.  
Aziraphale giggled.  
"That'll teach them," he gloated. "Played for suckers they were..."  
Crowley tried not to die over how ridiculously, adorably wrong that sounded in Aziraphale's voice. They reached the Bentley and tucked the bag safely away, well out of sight.  
"So, what may I buy you for dinner then?" Aziraphale asked, putting his hands together.  
Crowley looked around.  
"I dunno," he said. "I don't really know Oxford. What's good around here?"  
Aziraphale once again lit up, at the opportunity to give his opinion. This really had been an excellent afternoon, Crowley thought.  
"Well, if you fancy it... There's a rather nice sushi place not far from here," Aziraphale said.  
Crowley bobbed his head.  
"Yeah, sure. Lead the way."  
"Only if you like sushi, of course!" Aziraphale said quickly. "A poor reward it would be if you didn't actually care for it!"  
"I can eat sushi just fine," Crowley said. Truth be told, he mainly ate the the fried prawns, but surely this sushi place could supply those too. Hell, if Aziraphale kept smiling like that, he could probably stomach some salmon too, if nothing else, then for looks. He was not even particularly hungry, but Aziraphale had just been mugged and wanted food and company, so who was Crowley to say no?  
"Alright then. This way, please."

Aziraphale led Crowley further down the large street he was parked on and down a few side streets. The sushi restaurant was a nice, relatively newly renovated place on a corner with bamboo growing in sleek black planters along all the windows and a small red carpet in front of the door. The pavement sign announced the menu in both English on one side and Japanese on the other.  
Aziraphale happily stepped inside and was immediately greeted in Japanese by a man around 30 who was standing behind a counter in the middle of the room, making rolls.  
"Aziraphale-san!"  
Crowley's brows nearly flew off his forehead when the two men exchanged what he assumed were polite pleasantries before the chef gestured towards a table in the corner.  
"We can just sit down, someone will be over and take our drinks order in a second," Aziraphale said joyfully.  
Crowley kept staring.  
"You speak Japanese..?" he said.  
Aziraphale shrugged.  
"Rudimentarily," he said dismissively, but a small, smug smile played in the corners of his mouth. "Mainly food oriented. I simply adore their cuisine and being able to properly communicate without any clumsy pronunciations on my part ensures much smoother sailing. That, and it seemed sort of polite. From there it sort of... grew, I suppose?"  
They took their places in the corner, a nice private spot.  
"You're sure you actually do like it?" Aziraphale said with a frown. "I really wouldn't want you to go through with it if not."  
"Don't most people eat sushi these days?" Crowley asked, slightly miffed that he was apparently such a picky eater that Aziraphale felt the need to check more than once.  
"Well, the bishop doesn't, for one," Aziraphale said with a slight, but undeniable twang of snippy disdain in his voice that made Crowley smirk.  
"No?"  
"No," Aziraphale continued. "I had brought home a box for my dinner one time and he... swung by to say hello," he said, the dissatisfaction - and, worryingly, the distress - in his voice growing incrementally. "Had the hardest time explaining to him why I would have any interest in 'consuming uncooked fish'..."  
Crowley had to take a severe hold of himself as Aziraphale barely stifled an eye roll and it was really, really weirdly, petulantly hot.  
Clearly wanting to think of happier things, Aziraphale turned to the menu.  
"Oh! They've started doing oysters!" he said excitedly, pointing.  
"I'll take your word for it," Crowley said. The mix of Roman letters and Japanese characters was one big jumble to him.  
"Oh, of course, what am I thinking!" Aziraphale said apologetically. "Just tell me what you normally like and I'll order, shall I?"  
"Anything with those fried prawns," Crowley said. "And that brown sauce stuff." He expected a look of judgement but Aziraphale just nodded.  
"Alright, so tempura rolls and goma dressing then," he said with a smile. "How about those oysters?" he then asked, mind clearly straying. "I think I might like one or two..."  
Crowley could not care less about oysters, they were nothing compared to the way Aziraphale was tapping his finger against his lip as he considered the menu.  
"I've never eaten an oyster," he admitted.  
Aziraphale's head snapped up.  
"You've what??"   
"Nope."  
Aziraphale stared.  
"But, you - I mean. Do pardon me, but... didn't you say... you worked as a... companion-for-hire to a bunch of London socialites?" he asked.   
Crowley shrugged.  
"Ye, and?"  
"I'd have thought they'd have fed you nothing but oysters..." Aziraphale said, honest confusion on his face.  
Crowley laughed.  
"Oh, they all tried," he snickered. "but, y'know... you just give 'em the ol' 'won't be needing any help tonight if that's what you're worried about' and they'd let it be." He pursed his lips. "Kept me in the clear so far."  
"Well! You've run out of excuses this time!" Aziraphale said eagerly. "So let me tempt you!"  
Crowley raised a brow and snickered harder.  
"Thought you were supposed to save folks from that. Not lead them into it," he quipped, ignoring the sad fact that his usual excuse would be no use, since his absolute ability to get excited about Aziraphale was of no relevance and the oysters were in no way related to anything like that. In a better dream they might well have been, but this was, unfortunately, boring, old Real Life.  
Aziraphale glowered at the joke.  
"Well, I'm getting a couple of oysters," he snipped.  
Crowley wrinkled his nose.  
"Aren't they just kinda... snotty and gross?" he asked.  
Aziraphale's snorted without looking up from his menu. He looked like he was about to say something but then thought better of it and snapped his mouth shot, his ears going pink.  
Crowley could easily catch the general gist of what it had probably been and raised a brow.  
"Excuse me?"  
Aziraphale briefly peered up at him, half-shielded behind his menu, clearly blushing.  
"Hmm?"  
Crowley melted into his seat and choked down a laugh.   
"Nothing. Nothing at all," he crowed.   
Aziraphale gritted his teeth and looked through the menu one more time, despite knowing it by heart. How utterly irritating, the way Crowley had seemingly read his mind, and on an occasion when his mind had come up with such an uncouth retort! Thank the Lord that such a thing was not actually possible, or the redhead would have been treated to what may or may not have been himself doing a spot of over-acting. Goodness, how embarrassing it would be, if Crowley ever found out that Aziraphale had watched... well, any such material, really, there was no way the ginger menace would leave well-enough be about it. But if it then _had_ been Crowley, that would only make it doubly bad! Even if 'Crawley' would be a ridiculously obvious stage name, if that was what it would be called. Alias, perhaps?  
Although... if that _had_ been Crowley - well, then he would know how it had been done, would he not? And surely, once he was done laughing, it could be explained to him that Aziraphale had only been trying to do a spot of sleuthing about his night club. Perhaps he would then actually remember to tell Aziraphale the name this time and then Aziraphale could go back and properly look for information about the place rather than run into unfortunate dead-ends. Dead-ends full of highly unpleasant imagery...   
It really would be nice to have it all explained to death... Demystified. Made... less convincing. It had looked entirely too convincing in that video...  
Aziraphale winced internally and realised his eyes had probably not been moving for about a minute.   
"Alright?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale put down his menu.   
"Certainly!" he said, a little too quickly. Luckily he was spared the agony of further stalling as the lady owner of the restaurant came over, bringing along a tray of two large sparkling waters, all smiles and apologies for keeping them waiting. Aziraphale straightened his posture and shot Crowley the briefest glance before placing their order - in Japanese. Like a complete show-off.   
Crowley stared at the fussy, little priest across from him, just... ordering Crowley's dinner in a language Crowley did not speak like he was in a charge or something. Crowley shifted in his seat and chewed on the inside of his lip.   
_Damn, Daddy...  
_ Perhaps those oysters had come with a devious thought behind them after all...  
 _No, they fucking didn't, Crowley, you just bloody wish.  
_ Aziraphale finished ordering and folded his hands on the table as the smiling woman snatched up the menus and hurried off.   
Crowley sipped his water and looked around.   
"Given any interesting sermons lately?" he asked into the silence.  
Aziraphale gawked. Then his sheepish expression was ripped in half by a grin.   
_There you are, Sunshine,_ Crowley thought with a smirk. _Not all this frowning, now._  
Aziraphale giggled hopelessly and shook his head.   
"Never let anyone tell you you have no conversation skills," he snarked. For a moment they chuckled at each other, then Aziraphale's laughter died out. "There was a thing I meant to ask..." he started haltingly. "I tried looking you up, on the internet. That night club of yours... I was only curious to see what sort of place it was!" he insisted.  
Crowley folded one ankle over the other knee and leaned back, all casually business-like.   
"Yeah?"  
"Yes! And I must have mistyped your name. Silly me, butterfingers... Not a great typist, me, I'm afraid," Aziraphale rambled, perhaps a little too eagerly. "And - well. I found... I was rather shocked, I'll admit, - or, well, perhaps not _shocked_ , in that sense - but - I thought you might find this funny - I found - does the name Anthony Crawley mean anything to you?" he finished lamely, praying for a negative answer. But unfortunately Crowley's face lit up in a practically feral smile.  
"Crawley..." he cooed. "That's a name I haven't heard in a while. And pray tell, what was young Mr Crawley getting up to?"  
Aziraphale wished for the ground to swallow him up.  
"S-so that was, in fact, you, then..?" he stammered, staring down at his twiddling thumbs. "I couldn't be quite sure..."  
Crowley popped an elbow up on the back of his chair and let the tips of his tongue run along his front teeth.  
"Yeah. That was me." He sniffed to himself. "Changed my name from Crawley to Crowley as soon as I was out of St Jude's. You can see why, I'm sure. But, dyslexic, y'know, so I wanted to keep it simple for myself. But then I needed a... pseudonym for a new job that I got," he smirked. "and I thought it would be lovely to whip out the old family name one last time. As a nod to my loving parents."   
Aziraphale chewed on his lip. There was always a story with Crowley, was there not?  
"So you also did... adult entertainment," he said politely, because he felt like he needed to say something but was unsure how to respond to the information given.  
Crowley nodded, smirk growing.  
"Congratulations, Angel, your nosey nose has unearthed yet another corner of my seedy past," he cackled, gently stroking the jar of individually wrapped toothpicks with a thin, elegant finger. "If you don't mind me asking - which corner, exactly?"  
Aziraphale tore his eyes off the long slender digit and cleared his throat.  
"Well, I can't quite remember the title..." he said, looking away.  
"Mm. I bet you remember what happened in the video, though," Crowley said, leaning slightly forward. His voice had dropped slightly, gone husky and perhaps a little arrogant - he had Aziraphale cornered and he was enjoying it. Surely not in any sort of... sincere way, just... as a joke, watching Aziraphale squirm. It was highly irksome, but now that he was asking -  
"I didn't watch too much of it," Aziraphale snipped, truthfully. "But I - well, I have a question, I suppose..."  
"Ask me anything you like," Crowley said with an open-armed gesture, dark-voiced teasing gone. "Anything you wanna know."  
Aziraphale looked around. There was no one else besides the chef in the room and he was busy working. Aziraphale leaned forward as well and lowered his voice.  
"From the few seconds I watched -" He ignored Crowley's noise of taunting disbelief. "- the image quality wasn't great, mind you -"  
"I can only apologise," Crowley snickered.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes but did not respond to the quip.  
"But it rather looked like - like some sort of... rod was being - but that can't be right..." he started, almost too confused and curious to really be embarrassed. Almost. "What I want to know is... I've dabbled in a bit of a sleight-of-hand tricks over the years myself - coin tricks, 'pick a card', that sort - and besides my shock, I must admit I'm a bit curious about how that particular trick is done?"  
Crowley had been pursing his lips slightly, watching Aziraphale intently at he spoke but now he lit up. He was about to answer the smiling lady came back with two glasses of white wine. Both men politely nodded their thanks and the lady vanished again. Crowley tried again, his feral grin back in place as he wrapped his fingers around the stem of his glass.  
"Wine with dinner, you do spoil me, Father," he crowed.   
Aziraphale squirmed.  
"Yes, very good, but that video -" he said distractedly. Perhaps wine had been a bit forward, for this topic of conversation...  
Crowley raised his wine glass.  
"So you found the one with the rods, didya?" he said matter-of-factly.  
"I wasn't looking for it!" Aziraphale protested. "Why on Earth anyone would look for that sort of thing!" He shuttered slightly. "Please explain the trick to me so I can get it out of my head," he begged with a slight grimace. "It's hardly a... suitable mental occupation, to go around wondering about that sort of thing." He sipped his water, opting to forego wine as this moment, staring imploringly at Crowley who got himself nice and comfy in his seat before answering;  
"The trick is that there is no trick," he said calmly, head cocked slightly before sipping his wine.  
Aziraphale spat out his sparkling water and coughed and sputtered.  
"Oh! Oh, very funny!" he finally said after drying his chin with a napkin. "No, but really, I would feel much more comfortable if I could just lay this thing to rest -"  
"I'm not joking," Crowley said. He set his wine back down and slid two fingers up and down the stem of the glass.   
"But! But that man -!" Aziraphale gasped, still clutching his wet napkin in one hand.  
They were once again interrupted by the owner, this time with their food, quickly explaining to Aziraphale that the chef had very kindly added a little something extra that he knew Aziraphale would like.  
"Fantastic service in this place!" Crowley said merrily, breaking his chopsticks apart while Aziraphale barely managed to choke out his thanks. Crowley picked up a piece of tempura roll but Aziraphale knocked it back onto the plate with his own, still-connected sticks.  
"You don't expect me to believe that you actually -! That can't be - That's not right!" he hissed imploringly.  
Crowley smirked, picked his sushi piece back up and popped it in his mouth.  
"None the less, I'm telling you, that's what's done," he said through a mouthful of prawn and rice.  
Aziraphale looked like he had lost his appetite.  
"But that - Why would you do that?? Were you forced??" he piped up and Crowley realised he was actually worried. "I thought - that it was all just acting!"   
Crowley waved a hand and chewed as fast as he could in order to explain before Aziraphale panicked and dialed up some sort of crisis counseling hotline for Crowley.  
"Forced? Naw, don't worry about it," he said quickly. "I signed up for it, walked in fully aware, got paid and all. Not a fortune, but still. Made a few different films. Got popular enough that putting my name on it became a business move," he said, hoping that the tale of his rise to semi-pornstardom would distract Aziraphale. This had been fun when it had been Grandpa Angel having a Google-related accident, but the clear worry it was causing was less fun.  
Aziraphale stared at Crowley. Then he seemed to remember that they were meant to be having dinner and unenthusiastically broke apart his chopsticks too and prepared his small bowl of soy sauce. He made it as far as dipping a piece in the sauce before pausing.  
"But why??" he asked, sushi suspended in the air.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Same as any other porn; Someone gets off to it, so there's money in it."  
Aziraphale groaned and ate his piece of roll like it had offended him deeply.  
"But why agree to do _that_?" he then asked. "Needing money I can respect, you know my stance on those things, but.. surely there'd be... other forms of that sort of entertainment that would be a lot less -"  
"I like it," Crowley broke in, flatly.  
Aziraphale went quiet. Silence reigned for a long moment.  
"O-oh..." Aziraphale then said, desperately searching for something, anything to look at that wasn't Crowley's perfectly serious and honest face. "Well, that answers that," he added with an uncertain smile. "But that can't feel... nice!" he then exclaimed, stumbling over the last word.  
"It can," Crowley said with a shrug, shovelling in another bite of roll, slathered in brown dressing and considering the four oysters that sat in the middle of the neatly arranged plate in a small bowl of ice. This was way more honesty than he had planned on putting into this, especially since Aziraphale seemed deeply disgusted by the concept, but... the alternative was leaving poor Angel to worry and fret. Even if that might have garnered more sympathy.  
Aziraphale made a noise, a sort of exasperated chuckle.  
"Come now, it's bound to hurt!" he argued, seemingly finding his footing a bit as he now seemed to find Crowley pigheaded more than anything else.  
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Crowley countered while prodding an oyster shell, watching its contents wobble in favour of looking at Aziraphale's face.  
 _In for a penny_...   
At least there was no doubt if the oysters were supposed to mean something. Even if they had it was bound to be clean off the table at this point.   
Aziraphale went very quiet.  
"Oh. Oh, I see," he then said, very politely, shifting slightly in his seat.  
Crowley looked up from his oyster.  
"But I mean, all that in the video, yeah, that's all just acting. All porn reactions are fake, you know that, right? You play it up for the camera," he said quickly.  
Aziraphale looked like he was somewhat reassured by this. This was not the conversation Crowley had expected to have with a cute priest who had accidentally stumbled upon old clips from his time in porn. It was oddly sweet, though perhaps also slightly chastening. Aziraphale had clearly not been as smitten with what he had seen as one might have hoped. Typical Crowley's bad luck that it had been the bloody sounding video of all things...  
"Shall we try the oysters?" Aziraphale asked sheepishly.   
Crowley blinked.   
"Uhhh, yeah, sure. Lead on," he said gesturing sweepingly at the food.   
Aziraphale smiled and nodded. He grabbed a slice of lemon and the small bottle of tabasco.   
"How spicy do you want it?" he asked.  
 _And just like that you're prepping my oysters for me because let's drive Crowley mad, shall we? It means nothing, 'member? He's only being nice, 'cos you're new to this. It's not a sexy thing, 'cos he thinks you're gross, he only asked about that vid because he's a genuinely kind person and he was worried about you and freaked out by the weird shit you used to get up to...  
_ "I can do spicy," Crowley said, shushing his mind.  
Aziraphale dropped a generous amount of sauce into the shell.  
"Might make it seem less snotty too," he joked gently, dripping a bit of a lemon in as well before lifting up the oyster. "Here you are - let me know what you think?"  
Crowley halfway expected Aziraphale to feed it to him, but with some disappointed realised he would have to help himself. He carefully picked up the shell and knocked it back like a shot.   
Aziraphale was staring in rapt excitement.  
"How do you like it?" he asked with almost bated breath. At least he seemed willing to let bygones be bygones and make the best of their dinner. Crowley could work with that.   
Crowley chewed on the slimy thing in his mouth, grateful for the lemon and tabasco. He swallowed it and cleared his throat.  
"I... It's a thing," he said. He almost regretted it as Aziraphale's enthusiasm dimmed. "I can do another one!" he said quickly, before taking a healthy mouthful of wine. Aziraphale practically glowed. He prepped another two oysters and practically pushed one into Crowley's hand.   
"Cheers!"   
Crowley took his oyster and knocked it softly against Aziraphale's.   
"Cheers."

Aziraphale was in bed, mind reeling. Things had lightened up after the oysters, the subject had been changed back to Aziraphale's newly spruced-up books and conversation had gotten a lot less awkward, pleasant even. After sushi Crowley had given Aziraphale a lift home, kindly reminding him of his books stored away in the backseat as they had parted ways. Aziraphale had been just in time for Vespers, had put his books carefully away in their proper places, finished his sermon for the next day and had even had time to watch the news the telly while prodding at a crossword in the newspaper before going to bed.   
He had now finished his last prayers of the day and was supposed to be asleep at this point but he kept thinking about Crowley... and that video clip. He really _really_ ought to _not_ be thinking about that whole thing, but here he was.   
' _You say that like it's a bad thing_ ' kept ringing in his ears. So Crowley liked - that sort of thing. Unusual things, one might say. Or at least Aziraphale figured they were unusual, but what did he know, really?  
He sighed and rolled onto his side. It had helped some to know that Crowley had at least enjoyed it. It put the rather shocking image in a somewhat different light, to know that the display of discomfort had all been for show... This of course lead to the unfortunate wondering what Crowley's honest reaction might have been like. Would he been moaning and sighing, arching his back instead of struggling against the rope that tied him to the chair...  
Aziraphale let out a wheezing breath. As rubbish as the video quality had been, it had been obvious that Crowley had been stunning... As he still was. Terribly so. Stunning and complicated and so keen to reassure Aziraphale once he had stopped teasing which he had done much sooner than Aziraphale would have expected.   
It made something stir in Aziraphale stomach, something rebellious and troubling, Crowley being sweet like that. And... well. Crowley enjoying himself, too he supposed. In the sense that it was good to know that it had been an enjoyable experience, shooting that film! Obviously! Not in the sense that Crowley receiving pleasure was in any way, shape or form was making Aziraphale's hand creep towards his crotch or rub against the growing bulge there or slip into his pajama bottoms to stroke his erect member and it most certainly was not what was on his mind a few moments later as he finished into his own hand, his face buried in his pillow...  
Too tired after an overly eventful day, getting out of bed seemed like a hassle and Aziraphale simply resorted to wiping his hand on his pants inside his pajamas before folding his hands over his stomach.   
After that lot, he figured an extra prayer or two was in order...  
"Pater Nostre, qui est in Caelis. Sanctificetur nomen tuum..."  
It was all wrong, all of this... He and Crowley were supposed to be friends. This hardly seemed proper, to think of his friend in such a way... And over such a thing as - as that!   
Hang the 'Pater Nostre'...   
Aziraphale took a deep breath.  
"Ave Maria..." he sang quietly at the dark bedroom ceiling. "Gratia plena..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. My sweet summer's children. Can I hear a 'wahoo'?  
> My little nugget breathingfire got it right and shall be reward a biscuit with pink icing :P


	24. Chapter 24

_Tuesday, 18th of July_

Deidre was at her desk when Aziraphale patted in on Tuesday morning, rather late, technically, if you wanted to be that way about it, cup of tea in hand. Inspiration had struck and he had penned Wednesday's _and_ Thursday's sermons out in broad strokes by his dining table, a piece of cooling toast with jam in his other hand, and had lost track of time.   
"Has Crowley phoned you?" Deidre asked.   
Aziraphale frowned.  
"No. Why do you ask?" Not this silly discussion whether or not Crowley was 'alright' again, surely.   
"He was meant to deliver flowers today..." Deidre pondered. "Early, he'd said, but he hasn't turned up. Shop's closed too, no luck on the phone, Anathema hasn't seen him. I'm guessing he'd be at home then, but it seems so invasive to go knocking and I haven't got his number either."  
Aziraphale frowned.   
"That's not like him... He lives life fifteen minutes late, but that's about it," he noted.   
Deidre nodded.   
"Do you suppose... he's quite alright?" she asked.  
Aziraphale tutted.  
"Yes, dear, I can assure you, Crowley is quite, _quite_ alright. I spoke to him just this Sunday, he was just peachy. Perhaps he's simply overslept. Happens to even the best of us."  
"Three hours late?" Deidre said sceptically.    
"Crowley likes a nap," Aziraphale said evasively, settling into his chair. "Give it an hour or two and he'll show up with his hair in a pile on top of his head and tell us he'll have it ready by tomorrow.   
"We do need those flowers, though," Deidre argued.   
"The old ones will keep, let's be honest now, we are being a tad loose-fisted when it comes to the flowers," Aziraphale said.   
"I already threw out the old ones..."  
Aziraphale deflated.  
 _Of course you did.  
_ "Right then." He drained his cup of tea. "Seems like I'm off to play private investigator."   
"It does seem a bit much, showing up on his doorstep like that," Deidre wavered as Aziraphale got back up.   
"If he can bother me, I can bother him right back," Aziraphale said firmly.   
He marched out of the office building and hopped onto his bike. The weather was lovely, so he might as well put in a bit of fresh air. He smiled and waved his way through the village, at one point being overtaken by Adam, ringing his bell like a madman, presumably on his way to meet his friends. As he pulled into Crowley's driveway, in which the Bentley sat with a strangely abandoned look about it, there was absolutely no sign of life around. The blinds were drawn over the windows. Aziraphale had been unaware Crowley even had blinds.   
Aziraphale frowned to himself. Odd, this... He snorted derisively as he recalled fiddling with a manilla folder in Crowley's backroom at the shop and fretting that Crowley was involved in something dodgy that might one day get him abducted with no warning. He had very deliberately laid off the Ian Flemings since that day. This was not 'odd'. Merely a bit out of the ordinary.   
He delicately plucked up the snake door hammer and knocked a few times. Nothing happened. He tried again, perhaps a little harder than what was polite this time.   
"Crowley?" he called. "Crowley, it's me. Aziraphale? Are you in there??"  
It took another long moment, but then the door was opened and Crowley peered out. Aziraphale blinked. The redhead looked absolutely dreadful. He was unshaven and still in what Aziraphale assumed to be his night clothes, face sickly pale and clammy to look at and hair messy. He had even foregone sunglasses. He groaned pitifully when he saw Aziraphale standing outside.  
"Oh, my dear boy," Aziraphale tutted. "You don't look well at all!"  
"'M'not..." Crowley muttered weakly. "I think I have food poisoning..."  
Aziraphale winced.  
"Oh, no." He frowned sympathetically. "Any idea what's brought this on? One of those horrid microwave meals, I'd imagine -"  
Crowley grimaced.  
"Actually... I think it might've been from that sushi place we went to..." he said. Miserable and weakened as he was, he still sounded clearly apologetic. Or perhaps it was due to his weakened state that the sorry tone slipped out.   
Aziraphale blinked.   
"I haven't had any issues. And we shared all the rolls..." A thought struck him. "Could it be the oysters?? It does only take the one... I mean, the people at that place are consumate professionals, but accidents happen, I suppose..." He bit his lip. "Are you certain it couldn't be anything else?" he pressed, rather keen on proving his favorite restaurant innocent.   
Crowley slumped against the door.  
"Started late Monday morning..." he said. "'Round half ten. I'd skipped breakfast. Wasn't feeling too great. Went back home..." he trailed off.   
Aziraphale could not help but pull a face.  
"Been coming back up has it?" he asked sympathetically.  
"Yeah, that too," Crowley said with the bitterly resigned smile of a man who had no dignity left and thus nothing to lose.  
Aziraphale cringed.  
"Is it very bad?" he asked, because he felt like he needed to say something, only to then realise that perhaps his question was perhaps a tad invasive.  
Crowley looked at him and shook his head weakly.  
"You don't wanna know," he groaned. "Haven't had a break since it got going..."  
Aziraphale groaned.  
"Have you any of those pills for holiday tummy?" he asked. "If not I'd happily get you a box. I believe Betty stocks them."  
"Tried those," Crowley grumbled. "Couldn't keep 'em down. Can't keep anything down, even water comes back up." He leaned against the door frame and sniffled miserably. "Did you want anything?"  
"Well, I - we, us, the, uh... you know - technically had an order placed for new flower decorations for today," Aziraphale said delicately. "but with the way you're getting on, it seems like I should be asking less about the flowers and more about taking you to the hospital."   
Crowley snorted.  
"And how exactly do you suggest we get me to the bloody hospital?" he asked.   
"By car, obvious-" Aziraphale started vexedly.  
"I can't leave the house at the moment," Crowley groaned. He held Aziraphale's gaze for a long, telling moment.   
"Oh." Aziraphale felt himself flush, feeling utterly silly and bit sorry for forcing poor Crowley to overshare like this. "Oh. I see... Right, then..."  
Crowley pushed away from the door, one arm around his stomach.  
"Your flowers are done, in the back of the shop," he said, shuffling back into the dimness of the cottage. "Come in and grab the keys for yourself. I have to... go." And with that he staggered off to the guest toilet.   
Aziraphale winced again. Oh, this was terrible! _He_ had offered Crowley dinner as a reward, for being an absolutely knight in shining armor, and then _he_ had pushed the idea of oysters, had practically fed them to the poor man! And now look at it all! Some reward... How embarrassing! For them both, in different ways. Such a lovely afternoon they had had together and this was how it concluded.    
Finding Crowley's keys turned out to be surprisingly hard. Aziraphale went over the more obvious spots, such as the hallway table, but came up empty-handed. Instead he ventured down the few steps to the lounge area, letting his eye scan over the main room, which was completely out of whack - by Crowley's standards anyway. A bottle of that nice, fresh orange juice from that place in Norton, with no cap on, and a packet of Imodium with a few pills missing sat abandoned on the kitchen island. A blanket was thrown haphazardly over the arm of the uncomfortable sofa and another covered the seat where Crowley had seemingly been curled up. Next to the coffee table, below a half-empty glass of water sat a washing up bowl. Aziraphale dared a peek. A shallow layer of something slimy and watery-grey covered the bottom of it.   
Pure stomach juice. Delightful.   
As Aziraphale was making his way back to the entryway to pat down Crowley's jacket, the man himself reemerged from the bathroom, pale and trembling, still clutching his middle.   
"Kill me," he muttered.  
"Gladly. Once you tell me where your keys are," Aziraphale negotiated.  
Crowley stuck his hand in a jacket pocket and fished out the keys. It was always the last place you looked...  
"Thought you'd've rummage through my pockets first thing... Red one."  
"Right." Aziraphale jangled the keys, ignoring the jab. At least Crowley could not be quite on death's bed if he could still snark. Or perhaps that was simply the last thing to go before life itself... "Thank you so much, dear. Is there anything you'd like for me to bring you back when I return these?"  
Crowley shook his head.  
"Can't keep anything down," he repeated.   
"You really should drink something. You're bound to be dehydrated at this point. If you've been like this for a full day now, it's starting to get dangerous," Aziraphale admonished.  
"Can't help it, can I?" Crowley half whined, half sneered.  
Aziraphale hummed.  
"Have you tried boiled water?" he suggested.  
Crowley just pulled a face.  
"Ew..."  
"Yes, well, some lukewarm water might work better than cold," Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley gently by the arm and leading him back to the sofa. He put the blanket over him. "I'll get you a glass, yes?" he said firmly. "And then I'll go pick up my flowers and get them set up and then I'll come back with your keys. Are you sure you don't want anything? Nothing strikes your fancy at all?"  
"Actually... yeah." Crowley said, scrubbing at his stubbled chin. "Been gaggin' for IrnBru since five o'clock this morning..."  
"Right," Aziraphale said brightly. "If your body wants it while you're this poorly, it must mean it'll do you some good."   
"It's a fizzy drink," Crowley explained, managing to look at Aziraphale like he was an idiot, despite being on death's bed. "They sell it at the corner shop."  
Aziraphale scowled.  
"I'm very well aware what it is, thank you," he huffed. "Tastes like plastic."  
"Eh, it's pretty good in gin," Crowley argued, snuggling deeper into his blanket and peering up at Aziraphale from within its folds.   
"You need water, not cocktails," Aziraphale deadpanned.  
"Won't. I Pr'mise."  
Aziraphale nodded sternly. He marched off to the kitchen and dug out a glass from a cupboard. Then he opened the tap - and screamed.  
"What? What? What??"   
Aziraphale had dropped the glass into the sink and was now clutching his hand. He turned out around, grimacing, to look at Crowley who had sat up in his blanket nest.   
"The water's scalding hot!" he hissed. He peered down at his hand. He doubted it was badly burned, but the skin was an angry scarlet. "I think something's wrong with your pipes!"  
Crowley winced.  
"Aw, no, that's the boiling tap," he explained.  
"Boiling tap??" Aziraphale sputtered. "It wasn't boiling last time I was here!"  
"No, it's, uh, there's a li'l... thingie..." Crowley said. "you twist it..."   
Now, in a situation like this, it became obvious that Crowley was not at all well. Normally he would have been up and showing off his silly gadget, but instead he just waved a hand about and clung to his blanket. Aziraphale decided to let go of the fact that the kitchen tap had just tried to kill him and instead shut off the steaming stream of water. At the base of the tap itself there was a ring. It was turned so a red mark was facing outwards, while a blue mark sat off to one side.Aziraphale carefully grabbed it with two fingers and twisted.   
"It's on blue now..." he announced distrustfully.   
"Yeah, that's it, you're good to go now," Crowley said, slumping back into the blankets. "Sorry about that..." he said lowly while Aziraphale stuck his hand under the now cool and quite normal stream. "Marjie was here Saturday. Made her a cuppa. Guess I haven't used it since..."  
"It's drinkable??" Aziraphale asked with surprise. "You just turn on the tap and you have tea water at the ready??"  
"Yeah. S'why's clever. How did you think I boiled my water without a kettle?" came Crowley's muffled voice from within the blanket.  
"You're hardly a master chef... And I figured your fancy coffee monstrosity did the boiling all on its own." Aziraphale turned off the cold tap and considered his options. "If push comes to shove, a pot on the stove is a tried and true method," he said as he picked the glass back up from the sink and turned the switch back to red. Very carefully he opened the tap again and watched as steaming water poured into the bottom of the glass. Once it was half full, he switched back to normal water and filled it the rest of the way. "Although..." He walked over and put the glass warm water down in front of Crowley, snatching up the old one. "I suppose I rather had you pegged down at one of those heathens who simply sticks their mug in the microwave..." he finished apologetically.   
"You come into my house, while I'm sick, and insult me like that," Crowley noted sardonically.  
Aziraphale tutted.   
"Listen, I'm going to go now," he said, before scuttling off the kitchen with the old glass. On the way he also snatched up the orange juice and put the cap back on before sticking it in the fridge door and dropping the glass off in the sink. "You wait here and drink your water while it's warm. I'll be back as soon as I can with your hideous fizzy drink and your keys."  
He tucked the blanket a little tighter around Crowley's cold-sweating form and left a sickly, but at least somewhat snug redhead on the sofa. As the front door closed behind him, a voice called out, drawing a low groan from him.  
"Father Fell!"  
Aziraphale prayed for patience and turned around, sticking a smile in place on his face.  
"Mr. Tyler." he greeted through gritted teeth.  
"In to see Mr Crowley again, then," Arpee noted with something that had better not be disapproval or so help him, the nosey old git...   
Even the faintest whiff of guilt would come back haunt him forever so Aziraphale decided to just lay it on thick.  
"Just walking in the footsteps of our Lord and saviour, Jesus Christ," he said in his mildest, most saccharinely humble tone, gently folding his hands in front of him. "Visiting the sick and ostracised in their quarantined quarters to bring them some comfort as they suffer."  
Arpee stared, flabbergasted, as Aziraphale walked his bike to the end of Crowley's driveway, smiling warmly at him. As soon as his back was turned towards the old man and his dog, however, his smile faltered in favour of a heartfelt eye roll before hopping back in the saddle and pedaling off.

Crowley wanted to die, in the most angsty, overdramatic, 14-year-old way possible. He felt bloody gross, he hated being sick, hated not knowing when he would get better and he hated, hated _hated_ that Aziraphale had seen him like this. Not only was Crowley now the creepy guy who liked weird shit in bed, now his smooth, in-control image had been defenestrated too, most devastatingly so, by Aziraphale cleaning up his house, tucking him in and offering to go shopping for him!   
He had had such a great time Sunday afternoon, basking a little in having saved Aziraphale's books and blond's obvious appreciation, admiration perhaps, even, if you squinted at it just right. The food had been nice too, he supposed, if he thought hard enough to actually remember the food under the thick layer of the memory of Aziraphale being an entire a case study into things that drove Crowley mad, all 'oo' and 'ahh' and 'mmm!' as he made his way through the sushi. Once Crowley had gotten home his mind had willingly offered up a slightly different version of events, one where Aziraphale, pretty unexpectedly, granted, had found the video a lot more exciting, the oysters had been a very obvious hint and the day had ended very differently in the back of the Bentley and Crowley had felt young, dumb and pretty again. He had lain on his bed, panting and moping over the fact that despite him knowing full-well that the backseat was far too cramped for anything remotely amorous, that part was somehow the least unrealistic. As his eyes had begun to sting, he had thought to himself that he really, honestly, genuinely would need to move on and get over Aziraphale, find someone else, anyone, to preoccupy himself with instead, because he was now not only a 'friend' but a 'weird friend' who liked horrifying sexual stuff, too... Never in his life had he ever felt embarrassed, and much less _ashamed_ , about making those videos, had always staunchly refused to, but just then, seeing Aziraphale's abject horror, he had felt lower than low. Perhaps not so much over having made those videos, because Crowley knew who he was, for better or for worse, but why the Hell did those damn videos have to make it onto the internet??  
And now he was lying here, sipping warm water and reeking of puke... Because of Crowley's typical goddamned luck...  
Ten minutes later he was still feeling miserable and embarrassed by being found in this state and hated life in general, but he was also just about ready to get on his knees and kiss Aziraphale's shoes, as the small mouthful of water had actually stayed down.

Aziraphale rode back to the village like the Devil was on his heels, fetched the flowers at the shop while enthusiastically greeting Anathema who was just then returning from the bakery across the street, employed her help to struggle the crate flowers onto the luggage rack, dropped the flowers off at the church with an instruction to Deidre to put them up, picked up two large bottles of IrnBru and a packet of salty crackers at the shop, rather shocking Betty, it seemed, and made his way back to Crowley's cottage. Thankfully it appeared that Arpee had not seen fit to lurk about the premises for half an hour. Would have been rather like the old git...  
Crowley was nowhere to be found when Aziraphale entered the living room but as he set his shopping down on the island counter, the guest toilet flushed and Crowley came slinking out. He still looked miserable and it only got worse when he caught sight of Aziraphale.   
"This is just my luck, innit?" he asked with a small sob of laughter. "I try oysters for the first time. And now look at me."   
Aziraphale tutted and poured him a big glass of IrnBru.   
"Mustn't be so dramatic, my dear, it'll only make you feel worse," he tutted, raising a brow as he handed the glass to Crowley who took a small sip. "I brought you some salty crackers too. You'll be needing salt as well. And perhaps something to... firm things up a bit, in your system, I mean."  
"Felt pretty dramatic to me, just now," Crowley said pointing a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. He slumped into the sofa and groaned, a tired look on his face. "Not sure if I'm brave enough to try my luck with solid food yet... Although, to be fair, that oyster wasn't exactly solid, so I can't say that's how I ended up in this mess in the first place, I guess."  
"Well..." Aziraphale moved the soda bottle to the coffee table and folded his hands in front of him. "I had a marvelous time," he said with a small smile. "I mean," he added quickly, cheeks turning pink. "Dinner out with... a friend and all."  
Had Crowley been more well he would have analysed the everliving fuck out of that statement and in particular that little pause, there in the middle. But as it was he just grunted;  
"I'm never having oysters again..."   
"Quite fair," Aziraphale conceded. "I'm terribly sorry to have brought this on you, truly." He shuffled his feet awkwardly. "How's the warm water? A bit better for the tummy, no? Nanny always gave me warm water when my stomach was upset as a sprog."  
Crowley curled up in a ball of misery on the sofa.   
"It's stayin' down..." he muttered. Aziraphale could have sworn he heard a sulk somewhere in there.  
"Might I ask," he said. "Why you're out here... on your frightfully uncomfortable sofa and not in your bedroom, right next door to a bathroom?"  
Crowley's face froze up in that way people's faces do when they are caught completely off-guard by inquiries into something they would rather not say.   
"I' been sick..." he finally mumbled. "In the bathroom... Can't stand the smell. Tried to clean it up, but..."  
"Sick begets sick," Aziraphale finished dignifiedly. He chewed on his lip. "Would you, uh... I mean, if you've a bucket, I could - so you could go back to bed?" he offered.   
Crowley looked so utterly uncomfortable and humiliated by the suggestion, Aziraphale could feel it second-hand.  
"Nah, Angel, seriously, spare me the indignity, will ya?" the redhead finally sighed, clutching his glass of fizzy drink. "I appreciate the shop run, but don't overdo it with the kindness to thy neighbours, now."   
Aziraphale smirked softly.   
"Not at all," he said mildly. He pointed to the washing-up tub which still sat on the floor under the coffee table. "Would you at least like me to clean this out for you?"   
"I want to you piss off and stop fussing over me..!" Crowley growled, but even he could tell it came out petulant and sulky, rather than sincere. Which did nothing to make this more tolerable! Here he lay, all weird and gross and perverted while Aziraphale _looked after him_ , being all... sweet and friend-like. And Crowley so desperately wanted them to not just be friends and he hated that that was all there was to it and he hated that he hated that..! Apparently when you had acted like a superficial, over-sexed arsehole for long enough, you actually became one...  
Aziraphale picked up the tub with four stiff fingers, his nose wrinkling slightly. He marched off to the kitchen and rinsed the tub in the sink while Crowley sipped his IrnBru. So far there was no sign that it would be coming back up.   
"Shouldn't you be working, by the way?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale plopped the tub back down by the coffee table and put the packet of crackers down by the water glass.   
"This is work," Aziraphale said plainly.   
Crowley grumbled.  
"Thought we agreed you were leaving my soul to fuck itself up as it pleases, no saving involved," he sulked.  
"If I let my duties as a priest limit me in doing the Lord's work, I'd have an awful lot of spare time on my hands," Aziraphale sniffed aloofly. "If you want me to save anything, you'll have to rise and walk, as the old saying goes, and come to church. Until then, I'm going to assume that God is in the distractions."  
Crowley hated everything about that statement, including how much he adored Aziraphale for making it, but was left no time to call Aziraphale a prick, before he found his left hand delicately plucked up in a warm, soft palm as the blond perched himself on the edge of the sofa beside him.   
"May I?"  
Crowley gave the highly eloquent and extremely dignified reply of 'eh, bleh, yepfft' as Aziraphale held up his hand. His disembodied spirit watched from above as Aziraphale carefully prodded at the tip of one of his fingers.   
Aziraphale hummed and frowned at Crowley's digits, for a long moment simply cradling his hand, while Crowley's heart pounded at ten miles an hour, then the blond seemed to snap out of it and gingerly folded Crowley's fingers down and patted them a few times before letting go.   
"This really doesn't look too good. You're all saggy," he noted.  
Crowley ignored how his spine had turned to jelly while his cock was getting harder.  
"Oi!"   
"They don't bounce back at all," Aziraphale said, ignoring Crowley's eruption. "You really are very dehydrated."  
Crowley just grumbled in response, pressing his hand to his chest, vowing to never wash it again. Aziraphale had held it so carefully, it was almost painful to think about. Like Crowley was not a weirdo or something.  
Aziraphale got up from the sofa. Crowley immediately flailed about until he was on top of the warm spot left behind by the World's Cutest Bum.   
"Now. Here..." Aziraphale dug a hand into his inner pocket and pulled out a calling card. "is my mobile number. Do you have your phone?" he asked, peering at Crowley's blanket nest.   
"Uh..." Crowley patted a hand - his _other_ hand. The one was still eligible for washing - around. "It's... somewhere." Was it still in his bedroom? Urgh, for crying out loud...  
"Well, find it," Aziraphale snipped. "Should the puking return or... _the rest of it_ get worse," he said diplomatically, placing the card firmly on the coffee table. "I'm going to have to insist that you give me a ring, so I can get you a doctor or... something. Perhaps they can send out an ambulance with a saline drop for you. Or some sort of dysentery medication, what do I know..." he said, waving a hand vaguely about, while shooting Crowley a stern look. "Really, you," he tutted. "Lying around, alone at home, for a full day, unable to hold so much as water in you. Imagine if it hadn't been Tuesday! It might've taken days before someone had come around looking for you if it hadn't been for the flower arrangements for the church! What if you hadn't gotten better?? Food poisoning can be very serious, you know!" he scolded.   
Crowley ducked his head and sulked, still sitting on Aziraphale's warm spot and his hand still pressed to his chest.   
"It's not serious!" he argued. "I just gotta ride it out!"  
"It could well have been!" Aziraphale retorted petulantly. "You're as dry as parchment! I'm going to go now," he said primly, setting his jacket to rights. "And you are going to drink your fizzy drink and have a long nap. And _call me_ if you get any worse! I'll make very sure to keep the line open, just in case."  
"I will, I will, I'll call you, just go, shit!"  
Aziraphale gave a nod that would make Mary Poppins take notes. He strutted up the steps towards the front door. Hand on the handle, he turned to look at Crowley.   
"Promise me you'll call," he said imploringly.  
The only thing on Crowley that did not follow his spine's example and turn to jelly was _still_ his cock, which was harder than ever.   
"Yeah, yeah, I will," he said in a small voice, making doubly sure his groin was all covered up in blankets, while the World zoomed in on itself until nothing existed apart from Aziraphale's face.   
"You've got to look after yourself, dearest," Aziraphale continued.   
_Dearest.   
_"I will... 'Promise..."  
Aziraphale smiled softly.  
"I'll see you soon, then," he said. Then he slipped out and closed the front door behind him.  
It was odd, he thought to himself as he pedaled back to the church office. Seeing Crowley like that. His... his saviour, however over-dramatic that sounded, usually so cool and dark and enigmatic, brought all the way down to Earth, disheveled and fragile in his little blanket nest, needing Aziraphale's help for a change. It had felt nice, fussing over Crowley like this. Aziraphale did plenty of helping in his line of work, but bar that one time when Adam had had the chicken pox and a desperate Deidre had dumped him on Aziraphale as a last-ditch solution, it was never... never this sort of helping. Never this sort of practical... care-taking. It was always a shoulder to cry on, an opinion, a piece of advice, someone for people to practice their spirituality with. It was never simple stuff like fetching a bottle of fizzy drink... leaving a phone number to call in case of emergency. For a split second he hoped Crowley would be calling him soon, but then realised that obviously, that would mean Crowley was dangerously poorly and that was hardly a thing to hope for! Even if it did mean it would allow Aziraphale to do something more for him...   
As he pulled up by the small office building and parked his bike, Aziraphale pondered the fact that wanting to help was a walk down a knife's edge, really. Too much and you crossed over to positively horrid.  
He would need to be careful not to overindulge himself... He never had been quite good enough at moderation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, lovlies! You may have noticed that this *early* (shocker, I know). The reason is that as of Tuesday, I'll be spending a week away from hairdresser school, interning at a real salon. I may therefore be too busy/tired/fucking done to get much writing done next week.  
> That, and you guys have gathered into a proper little crowd of regular commenters on here, and I'm whore for it, so I was hoping for a couple of excited comments to get fired up on <3


	25. Chapter 25

_Thursday 20th July_

Come Thursday night, Crowley's stomach was mostly back to normal, with his number of trips to the bathroom in a day down to a socially acceptable level and the pads of his fingers once again a medically acceptable amount of springy. The only issue remaining was the taste of bile that stuck in his mouth, which persisted no matter how desperately he deep-throated his toothbrush. He had decided to let the business mind its own business, simply instructing Pandabear to restock the box outside with whatever was ready in the flower fridges and had simply spent a few days finally getting around to cleaning up the bathroom, airing out the bedroom, snoozing and watching 'Golden Girls' while chucking IrnBru and munching on the crackers Aziraphale had brought him. As both the fizzy drink and crackers had at last stayed obediently in his stomach, he was currently feeling daring, treating himself to a proper, solid meal in the form of fish'n'chips down at the local while getting skint in a game of poker against Marjie and Anathema. Aziraphale was once again away at work. Apparently the 70-year-old daughter of the latest old sod to buy it, out at the home, was having a terrible time coping with the untimely passing of her mother. Aziraphale had phoned Marjie from the office building bathroom where he had hid away in order to catch a break after two solid hours of inconsolable sobbing from the upset woman. According to Marjie, Aziraphale had sounded on the verge of... whatever was Aziraphale's equivalent of losing his shit, since he was much too polite to actually lose it.   
Marjie was currently fussing over Crowley withering away just across the street from her front step without letting her know, while dealing a new round of hands.  
"You silly thing! I'd've happily looked after you! If you'd slipped me twenty I'd've worn my nurse uniform too."  
"Did you like the tea I gave you?" Anathema asked.   
Crowley gave up on snickering.  
"No, I bloody well didn't, it tasted like dirty socks!" he snapped. After leaving Crowley - and his awkward boner, which he had been too exhausted to do anything about - to sip his IrnBru and wish he could turn back time, to a day before drunken snogs and stupid village fairs and ill-fated sushi dinners, Aziraphale had been kind enough to blabber to Anathema, on his way back to the rectory, informing her that Crowley was unwell. As a result, the irritating yankee lady had not so much arrived as _descended_ upon Crowley's cottage, in a flurry of incense fumes, which had done good work to revive Crowley's nausea, hauling along a slew of remedies for stomach upsets, half of which she had more or less force-fed him.   
"But did it help?" Anathema continued, fanning out her cards while Marjie passed her the deck.   
"I was already on the mend!" Crowley bickered, plucking out two cards and flinging them at Anathema. "The IrnBru did the trick before you even showed up."  
"That artificial crap," Anathema shot back, replacing the cards. "You'd be much better off with my natural herbal remedies -"  
"The dodgy oyster was all the 'natural remedy' I needed, ta very much," Crowley cut her off. "Marjie, doll, you don't want any cards?"   
"No, I'm quite good, thank you," Marjie chirped brightly from across the table. This was their third round of the night, Marjie being so heavily in favor with Lady Luck that Crowley had threatened to stick his hand down her top in search of the extra cards that he was convinced she was hiding, while he himself was continuing his streak of misfortune.  
"In a moment," Crowley said irritatedly, as he exchanged a further three cards from Anathema, still getting nothing of any use whatsoever. "my entire head is going to be in your bra, Marjie, and I'm stealing all those extra cards from you and there's runt all you can do about it, you filthy little cheat."  
"Are you accusing me of not being able to fill it out?!" Marjie shot back.   
"Speaking of filling out," Anathema said while Crowley and Marjie cackled at each other. "What's that Pulsifer dude even got in that massive head of his?"  
"What's got you asking?" Crowley said absentmindedly, lamenting his appalling hand of cards and the fact that he was down to his last three bob.    
"My laptop's been a bit funny lately," Anathema said. "It was driving me insane and I guess he heard me swearing or something. He was probably eavesdropping, the creep. Anyway," She threw a couple of pence on the table. "He offered to help me out. Said he was 'pretty good with computers'," she sneered in a mocking accent, miles off what Plucky actually sounded like. "and now my laptop's dead. Muerto. Done. Sparks were flying and then it went black. Haven't been able to start it since."  
"Maybe there was more wrong with it than you thought," Crowley said, honestly not really giving a shit as he considered his limited financial options.   
"Thank God I had a backup," Anathema groused.   
"Then what're you complaining for??" Crowley grumbled. "Just buy a new one, for pity's sake."  
"He ruined my laptop!"   
"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose," Marjie said placatingly, easily following Anathema's bidding. "Really, he seems like the sweetest young fellow. Just a little awkward, I suppose. Perhaps you got him flustered so he made a mistake."  
"Maybe you accidentally cast an evil eye on him," Crowley said, chewing his his lip. "Maybe this is actually your own fault. Maybe you've put seven years of bad luck on him and now karma or whatever's out to get you."  
"Maybe he should try and drink a bottle of IrnBru against that, then," Anathema grumbled.   
"Special blessed IrnBru, hand-delivered by Father A," Marjie giggled. "I'm sure that's part of the trick too."  
"There will be no bloody blessing in no house of mine," Crowley warned her. "We've got a gentlemen's agreement that I'll have to come to church if I want any blessing done and you won't catch me dead in that place, so. Full credit for my miraculous recovery goes to the 'Bru."  
"Are you going to do any bidding?" Anathema asked, kicking Crowley's ankle under the table.   
Crowley pushed his few remaining pennies forwards the middle of the table.   
"You're short-funded," Marjie noted. "You'll have to fold. Mine's a white spritz, there's a love."  
Crowley growled. It was hardly the expense of buying a round, so much as it was the walk of shame to the bar, having lost.   
"How about if I throw in my car keys?" he offered. If he could just drag this out long enough, he be able to bluff the others into folding instead..!  
"Where's the fun in that when we resettled the winnings afterwards?" Anathema asked. "Just fold and buy us some goddamned alcohol."  
"Not when you're being like that, I won't," Crowley snipped.   
"I'm being like this 'cos your stupid hired help has fucked up my laptop..!" Anathema hissed.   
"That's not my fault!" Crowley protested. He turned his attention back to the game. "How about," he suggested, upon being reminded that he was still screwed. "I take off my trousers and throw them in the pool, hm?"   
Marjie howled with laughter while Anathema groaned and rolled her eyes. Marjie was about to say something, but was cut off by the barman who had been clearing the neighbouring table;  
"I really wish you wouldn't."  
Marjie cackled louder than ever while Crowley and Anathema joined in.   
"Oh, goodness, you can tell Father A is flaking on us tonight," Marjie hiccuped, wiping a tear from the corner of her eyes.   
"Since when has he been any moderator to my behaviour?" Crowley scoffed, purely out of principle, seeing how he would tie himself in a knot if Aziraphale had preferred that.  
"He tends to spread good behaviour where he goes," Marjie noted. "He just sort of radiated... goodness."  
She was not wrong, really. Aziraphale really was just very obviously a good person. Alright, so maybe it had taken Crowley a bit to realise that it was actual _proper_ goodness, but even he had come around -  
"Are you folding or showing?" Anathema asked.   
Crowley had eight of hearts as his best card. The chances that he could win with that were nearly nonexistent. _Nearly_. But if he folded, he was forced have to get drinks and due to who he was as a person, he disliked the idea of admitting defeat.   
"He's _buyin_ ', that's what he is," Marjie crowed. "Mine's a cranberry vodka, my darling boy," she added, fluttering her lashes. "What've you got over there? Five of diamonds?"   
Crowley stewed.   
"I'll have a G&T," Anathema said tersely. "And you'd better make it a big one. We can drink to the memory of my laptop."  
"I'm not responsible for what you and Pickles get up to in your spare time," Crowley snapped, still glaring at his cards. "And I don't think he's smart enough to do shit on purpose, so leave me alone, shit!"   
"With the language," Anathema scoffed, clearly feeling smug as she watched the pressure amount on Crowley.   
"You really should come to church sometime," Marjie said pleasantly. "Might work better on your filthy mouth than soap. He's quite good at his job, our Father A, I try to go on most Sundays. I lured Anathema along last Christmas, you quite liked it, didn't you, pet?"  
"It wasn't too shabby," Anathema conceded. "Can't say he isn't good at what he does. You should come along, just for the heck of it," she said, kicking Crowley's ankle under the table.   
"Nay, ta," Crowley grumbled, ducking behind his shitty hand of cards and gritting his teeth.  
Anathema rolled her eyes.  
"Would it kill you?"  
"It may very well," Crowley retorted.   
"He's your friend! You hang out all the time. The least you could do is go to one of his sermons, _once_. He orders flowers from your shop 'n all!" Anathema argued.  
"That's not my fault!" Crowley argued.  
"Tell you what, my lovies," Marjie pondered. "since you're all out of dosh and Reg doesn't allow strip poker in his establishment," she said, her eyes glittering under her false lashes as she shot a mirthful glance towards the bar. "how about this; if you lose, dearie, you come to church with the rest of us on Sunday, how's about that?"  
Crowley snorted.  
"There's no way in Hell I'm taking that bet, with this hand," he said.   
"We'll deal a fresh hand," Marjie offered easily.  
"I won't be going to church."  
"Not if you win, no."  
"I'm not playing for that."  
"Father A would be so excited if you came," Marjie said.   
Crowley did not want to go to church. There were few things he wanted less, frankly. Putting his cock in a running blender ranked higher. But he also did not want to cause a scene because that may lead to questions, and spilling his everything to Aziraphale had been enough spilling to last him a lifetime. Besides, Marjie was also irritatingly _right_ ; Aziraphale would be endlessly excited. Probably a bit surprised, but definitely excited. Pleased, even. Pleased with Crowley.   
Oh, what the Hell. Crowley had to lose first and his luck was bound to turn sometime, right?  
"Shuffle up and deal, honey. But when I win, I'm picking my own prize."

_  
Sunday 23rd July_

Crowley shifted and shuffled in his seat and the old pew creaked like mad in response, taunting him over the fact that his stomach was back to its usual self and he thusly had had no excuses to miss out. He had lost the hand like a schmuck and had been climbing the walls ever since. Marjie had gone as far as to show up on Sunday morning, at eight blasted o'clock, dressed in her Sunday best - that was to say, like she was headed to her newly-executed mobster boyfriend's funeral, wide-brimmed hat included - to beat Crowley out of bed and force a cup of coffee down his throat and a shirt over his head. Then she had hauled him along, all the while chirping happily as if Crowley was not slowly but surely winding up tighter and tighter by her side. She had even squealed like a schoolgirl as Crowley had insisted on at least taking the Bentley as far as his usual parking spot behind his shop. On any other day her plain enjoyment of the ride would have been endearing but sadly the odds were stacked against it.  
Once at the church - which smelled exactly like Crowley had feared it would, of mothballs and old carpet, but also, strangely, slightly of hot cocoa - Crowley had found himself forced into a pew all the way in the back, sandwiched between Marjie and Anathema, who was thankfully dressed, if not like a _normal_ _person_ , then at least in a normal sort of outfit by her standards.  
Marjie put a firm hand on Crowley's furiously bobbing thigh.  
"Sit still you," she tutted.  
Crowley grumbled.  
"Still pretty sure you cheated, you little -"  
Suddenly Anathema's hand was grabbing at him too. At his stomach this time.  
"Shh! Look!"   
Anathema leaned out and pointed up the aisle at someone who had just walked past them. Crowley and Marjie raised themselves halfway from their seats to look. Two men were slowly making their way up the through the church, one of them, a tall, broad-shouldered bloke with fashionably greying temples, greeting people here and there. Marjie gasped lightly and sat back down, pressing herself into the pew.  
"Oh, no..." she groaned.  
Crowley was looking back and forth between the two women.   
"What, what, _what_??"  
Anathema pulled a face of pure loathing.  
"It's the bishop..." she muttered.  
"Gabriel Engels," Marjie added darkly, her brow raising in a manner to suggest that she was unsure if the man was perhaps part slimy bug.   
Crowley frowned. Aziraphale had mentioned the bishop once or twice, but Crowley, being Crowley, would have hated the man, preceding reputation or not. He kept his eyes trained on the bishop and the short, square man by his side. They were now standing by the front row, talking lowly to Moneypenny who was only halfway successful at faking a smile and clearly panicking. Crowley let himself drop back into his seat.  
"Why's the bishop here today?" he asked, affronted, really, on Aziraphale's behalf. Was the man checking up on him or something??  
"He likes to 'stay in touch' with his diocese," Marjie sniffed.   
"Overbearing, micromanaging hnnng - I can't say that in church..." Anathema muttered. "I didn't realise he'd be here!"  
Andy - or whatever the fuck his name was. The parish director's bossy kid - suddenly appeared by her shoulder.  
"I'm sitting with you guys," he stated, already muscling his way into the pew, forcing the adults to scoot further in. "I don't wanna sit with those two." He wrinkled his nose disdainfully, nodding towards the front.   
"Been dragged along by Mummy?" Crowley asked commiseratingly.   
"Beats fishing with Dad," Andy said plainly. "What're you doing here?"  
"Wishin' I was going fishing with your old man," Crowley sulked.  
"It's really boring," the boy explained. "You just stand there for hours and hours and you catch nothing."  
"Sounds a lot like church," Crowley said, somewhat distracted by watching Moneypenny nervously shuffling about on the spot by the organ, looking at her wristwatch, but not quite so distracted that he was going to stop hating on church-going.  
"Did you know the bishop would be here?" Anathema asked Andy.  
"Nope," Andy said flatly. "Mum is just about bricking herself. Someone better eat this." He shoved a crumbled piece of paper, covered in a what looked to be random scribbles, into Anathema's hand.  
Crowley's curiosity hit a spike so mighty it nearly broke through poor Aziraphale's already suffering church roof.  
"What's that?"   
Anathema unfolded the paper.  
"The priest will be available for confessions on Saturday," she read. "in the space between three thirty PM and until exactly five PM. Please make your confession direct and to the point and confess _only your sins and offenses._ No need to explain why you did it. If the priest is not available, please ring the bell. If no one comes, the priest may have been called away on duty elsewhere. Many apologies for the inconvenience. Thank you for your understanding, yours obliged, Father A."  
Crowley had to cram a hand all the way down his throat to stop himself from laughing out loud. Next to him Marjorie was desperately biting down on a lace hankie, tears welling up in her eyes.   
"Mum asked me to take it down," Andy explained. "Said the bishop might not like it... I don't see why Father A can't just do as he likes, it's his church," he shrugged. "The bishop's a knob anyway."   
"You're in the church, young man," Marjie tutted, getting a hold of herself, clearly reckoning that someone had to say something since Crowley and Anathema were both making silent grimaces of agreement.  
"Thou shall not lie," Andy countered, stone faced.   
Anathema stopped cackling under her breath and bit her lip.   
"Should we warn Father A about the bishop?" she asked.  
Marjie grabbed Crowley's hand to have a look at the time as well.  
"No time for that!Where in the World is he?" she asked. "It's three minutes past! That's not usual..."  
As if on cue, the door behind the altar could be heard open and close hurriedly and Aziraphale stepped out, slightly out of breath. He looked over the congregation right to left, grimacing apologetically, and locked his eyes on Crowley who was once again half out of his seat, pulling a face. Aziraphale noticed nothing and instead lit up like a bloody lantern with surprise.  
 _"The bishop!"_ Crowley mimed tensely.  
Aziraphale's smile faltered just slightly to a look of confusion. When Crowley - and Anathema, who had propped herself up beside him - started pointing towards the bishop he turned his head, distractedly, only to look back at Crowley and then do the double take of the year; His head snapped back in the other direction, the smile melted off his face and his eyes turned saucer-wide. It was clearly with a monumental effort that he pulled himself together and quickly walked over to shake hands, face frozen in a look of polite horror before stepping behind the ambo, dropping his handful of notes on the floor and quickly diving down to retrieve them.  
Crowley lowered himself down and winced, exchanging looks with Andy and the two women.   
"Lord - uh..." Aziraphale stuttered, weakly. "Lord be with you."  
 _And with your soul_... Crowley thought darkly to himself, in time with the chanted response of the congregation. _You'll be needing that..._

Just as well that the start had not been promising because the middle was indeed nothing to write home about either. The sermon was technically not completely intolerable, Crowley supposed, if one had the stomach for church-going in general, which he did not, but Aziraphale was clearly out of whack, stammering and tripping over words, messing up the order of his notes more than once, and even knocking the Bible off the ambo at one point. Finally it was time for the Eucharist. Everyone in the back pew stayed put.  
"You not going up?" Crowley quietly asked Marjie, one eye on Aziraphale's white face as he passed out wafers dipped in wine to the first round of people.  
She shook her head.  
"I'm not Catholic, dearie," she said, equally as focused on Aziraphale, a slight grimace around her mouth and worry in her eyes.   
Crowley stared.  
"Thought you said you go often??"  
"It's nice!" Marjie countered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the World. "Or it usually is..." she added, cringing.   
From the end of the pew Andy, of all people, shushed them, his face an almost immaculate imitation of his mother's strictest look. Crowley ignored him and stretched his neck to look.  
"Bishop's up next," he commentated. "Let's just hope Big Guy doesn't spill the wine..."  
"I wouldn't mind if he spilled on the bishop..." Anathema said, folding her arms over her chest. Next to her Andy bobbed his head concedingly.   
"Or at least on Father Sandalphon," he agreed.  
"Shouldn't you be going up there?" Crowley asked the boy.   
Andy shook his head.   
"No?" he said like it was obvious. "I haven't taken First Communion yet."  
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"How old are you?? Five?"  
"I'm nearly ten. But I haven't been baptised yet," Andy shrugged.  
"Your mum's the parish director," Crowley sputtered, wondering why in the World he sounded so affronted by this irregularity. He liked irregularity! He _was_ irregularity in a very nice pair of designer jeans! Perhaps he was due for a trip back to London, village life seemed to be doing a number on him. All that fresh country air and set routines...  
"Mum's Catholic," Andy supplied as if Crowley might want to have that explained to him. "Dad's not," he then continued "He's just... normal. 'Cept for the fishing, maybe. That's pretty lame."  
"Why the Hell would you go to church on a Sunday if you don't have to??" Crowley sputtered. "Kid's these days, I swear -"  
"Language!" Marjie hissed, eyes glued to Aziraphale up front.  
"I already told you, I didn't wanna go fishing," Andy said.   
"So we're just a row of cheap seats full of heathen bastards, come to gawk," Crowley concluded. Goodness knew there was enough to gawk at in that moment, if human train wrecks were your thing. They usually _were_ Crowley's thing, trash as he was, but he heaved a sigh of relief when the Eucharist was finally over without any accidents. He might have just about cried if Aziraphale had spilled.

Crowley was used to sitting through Mass with a stomach ache, but this time had to actually be the worst in his life, somehow. Despite his relief, his stomach was one big knot of second-hand embarrassment even as the shamble all came to an end and Anathema grabbed him by the lapels and pulled while Marjie pushed against his shoulder to get him to hurry out of the pew. Outside by the door stood Aziraphale, visibly displeased, and the three adults and Andy were practically running to get to him before a queue formed.  
"Are you alright?" Marjie asked before even reaching Aziraphale.  
He sent her a long-suffering look, jaw clenched, as he shook her hand.  
Next in line was Crowley.  
"You look like you need a drink," he said quietly, foregoing a handshake since he was unsure if he would be able to resist the urge to sling Aziraphale over his shoulder and run far, far away with him, while the queue of people behind them slowly started to grow.   
"Can't," Aziraphale muttered, shaking Anathema's hand. "The bishop and Father Sandalphon are staying for lunch..." He looked sick at the mere thought. "Go on without me," he muttered, his demeanor more akin to someone who had just told his friends to leave him behind in the flooding end of a submarine.  
"What're you wearing under there?" Andy noted, looking down at Aziraphale's usual brown Oxfords.   
Aziraphale shifted on the spot and clicked his tongue.   
"Yes, I know, I know," he fussed.  
"The bishop'll have kittens if he sees you in normal clothes... Again," Andy continued matter-of-factly.  
"I have a set of clericals in the vestry, I'll change afterwards," Aziraphale snipped.   
"'Mummy's still inside if you need any help, I think" Andy then said.  
Aziraphale's ashy face softened just a little.  
"No thank you, dear, I can handle it."  
The three grownups and Andy shuffled off to one side outside the church, partially hidden behind a cypress tree, to let everyone else get out. Several people patted Aziraphale on the shoulder and most gave him sympathetic smiles. It was nice of them and all, but Crowley could tell that it started to grate on Aziraphale's pride.   
Crowley cleared his throat.  
"I'm guessing that was not the locally World famous Sunday Show you so desperately wanted me to come and see?" he intoned dryly, eying a very smart heather grey Mercedes, which was parked by the rectory.  
"Nope," Andy said. "That was a shit show."  
"Adam!" Anathema scoffed, clearly mostly worried that Aziraphale might have overheard the comment. He was, however, unlikely to hear anything at all, as the bishop and Father... Sandal?? - What in the Hell kind of name was that?? - had now exited the church, trapping Aziraphale in conversation, his face like that of a deer in the headlights.  
"From the mouth of babes..." Marjie sighed. The bishop gave a loud, comradely chuckle and dunked Aziraphale hard on the shoulder.  
"That was like watching the first round of X-factor auditions live," Crowley said, feeling slightly shellshocked. The bishop and Father Santa Claus - who looked like the sleaziest Santa Crowley had _ever_ seen - were now chatting to the grumpy wife of that dead plumber bloke, who had loudly broken into their talk with Aziraphale. The lady, for once, looked mighty pleased to e having the conversation while both men had the sort of stiff, slightly condescending smiles of people who are merely graciously entertaining someone far beneath their intellectual level. Aziraphale took the opportunity slink off into the church, presumably to change.   
"Hello, young man!"  
Andy and the grownups froze. The bishop had clearly gotten tired of listening to Mrs dead-plumber-bloke and had instead clocked Andy's right arm which had not been shielded from view by the tree. Crowley peered between two branches while keeping himself carefully hidden. The bishop's smile was fake as ever, but trying much harder now as he gestured for the boy to come over and chat. It gave Crowley the absolute willies.   
Andy shot the grownups a long-suffering look. Crowley was less than interested in risking having the bishop walk up to their group, so like the true pal he was, he shoved the boy forward into the lion's den in order to save himself.   
"Go on, make nice, damn you," he hissed.   
Andy trudged over.   
"Hi..."  
"I didn't see you at Communion today, did I?" the bishop said chipperly, the look in his eyes clearly denoting that he found this to be a mistake.   
"Yeah... Just didn't get 'round to it," Andy shrugged unimpressedly.   
The bishop's smile stayed in place, but it got a bit frayed around the edges.  
"You're the parish director's lad, aren't you?" the bishop asked.   
Andy did not even pause.  
"No?" he replied.  
A bell rang out in the street. Andy's friends were waiting out there on their bikes.  
"Adam! Are you coming or not? The rest of us are going now!" Pinkie called impatiently.   
"I gotta go," Adam - not Andy, whoops - said quickly before turning on his heel and beelining the fuck away from the bishop. He ran over to his friends and hopped onto the luggage rack of Grubby's bike. "Let's go get my ride and we can go," he said. "Bit quickly, you guys."  
As the kids took off, Crowley turned his attention back to the bishop, who had apparently opted to not dwell on the snub he had just taken, instead now talking placatingly with Arpee;  
"... I can assure you, sir, we at the diocese are taking a very dim view of these things and we're putting all the effort we can into beating back this particular devil."  
"Slimy git..." Marjie muttered.   
Anathema rolled her eyes and scoffed.  
"That man makes me ashamed to be an American," she noted, disdainfully shaking her head.  
"Don't most Americans?" Crowley asked distractedly. Aziraphale and Moneypenny had just exited the church, Aziraphale dressed in a rather rumpled set of clericals, but clericals all the same, thankfully. The bishop immediately put a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and bid Arpee goodbye. The older man looked quite miffed and shuffled off, shooting a dirty look at Aziraphale as if it was highly impolite of a clergyman to be taking up a bishop's time.   
"Right! Shall we get to it?"   
Aziraphale looked like he was being hauled off to the guillotine as he had no choice but to lead the bishop and Father Schadenfreude through the small, unofficial path through the bushes and towards the rectory, the bishop talking the entire time. As Moneypenny drifted over to the group still hiding behind the cypress, the bishop's grating accent carried to them;  
"... pornography..!"  
Moneypenny smiled tensely.   
"I did not know he was coming today..." she said.   
"We guessed as much," Crowley said.  
"Adam went off with his friends," Marjie said. "I don't know about you lot, but I could do with a spot of lunch. And a drink."  
"I could do with several drinks," Crowley scoffed.  
"You wanna come, Deidre?" Anathema offered.   
Deidre shook her head.  
"I have a few things I need to tidy up before I close up. The vestry looks like a bomb's gone off in there. Father A had to do a bit of a quick change..."

"Holy shit..." Anathema sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.  
"Yeah. That was literally some shit that was holy..." Crowley intoned flatly.   
The atmosphere at the Tree was bearing the clear mark of the disastrous Mass. A good couple of handfuls of people were having an early lunch, all of them talking in hushed voices, clearly about what had been going on. A few people who had foregone the show were poking their heads in to have it all retold to them.   
Anathema, Marjie and Crowley were at their usual poker table, Crowley sitting in the same exact spot as he had when he had lost and gotten himself entangled in this whole miserable morning. It had been nearly four hours since the service had ended and everyone around the table was working on their third drink while trying, and failing, to find a positive spin on the morning. Mr Moneypenny had just shown up, chatting happily with another couple of men, all dressed in a mossy green or khaki clothes, a boony hat, with different fish hooks dangling from the brim, on his head and a fishing rod in his hand.   
"Right." Crowley skulled his whiskey, suddenly feeling fed up with everything and desperately needing to get moving and _do_ something. "Let's go."  
"Go where?" Anathema asked.  
"To see if the bishop's creepy little mate has eaten Aziraphale yet."  
"Arthur," Marjie said as Mr Moneypenny passed her chair on his way to the bar. "Were you out by the Dip fishing just now?"  
"I was, yes," Mr Moneypenny supplied merrily. "Didn't catch anything today, I'm afraid, but uh... close. Damn close," he chuckled.   
"Did you by any chance see if the bishop's car was still parked outside the rectory when you passed it on your way here?" Marjie inquired.   
"I did, yes! Lovely thing, isn't it? You'd know, Mr Crowley," Mr Moneypenny noted, nodding at Crowley. "You've quite the advanced taste in vehicles."  
Crowley smiled distractedly.  
"Four bloody hours..." he said disbelievingly. "Doesn't he have better places to be??"   
"Not if you ask the bishop," Marjie sighed. "He and Father A don't, uh... quite see eye to eye on certain clerical matters. The bishop's only been in the job five years and he's very keen to make sure that Father A does an acceptable job..."  
Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes.   
"Right. That's it." He stuck his hand in the air and clicked his fingers. "Roonie!"  
"It's Reg!" the barman replied tiredly.   
"I'm going to go now," Crowley continued. "Can you have a round of fish'n'chips and a shepherd's pie ready in twenty minutes times?"   
"I can, yes..."   
"To go?"  
"I can do that, aye."  
Crowley nodded.  
"Gotta love the service out in these parts," he smiled impishly at Mr Moneypenny. "It's something other than London, I tell ya. I'll be back in twenty then," he continued, strutting towards the door, leaving Mr Moneypenny and the ladies by their table.  
"Where are you going?" Anathema asked.  
"Home," Crowley called over his shoulder. "to have a sartorial crisis."

"So that's the diocese's new strategy. I trust I can count on you to put in good work to carry it out!"  
Aziraphale smiled strainedly. The bishop had talked nonstop since Mass had ended, mostly about his newly minted plans to combat the spread of 'indecent materials' in the diocese, with occasional diversions to a complaint about Aziraphale still doing intincture, a backhanded comment on Aziraphale's shoes - which were still his usual brown ones since his black ones had decided to go hide somewhere rather than be readily available - and an idea he had been working on, about getting all of his priests customised workout routines, diet plans and smoking cessation training, in order to both encourage more suitable physical activity in the parishioners than what might otherwise spring to mind, and to ensure that the clergy on a broad scope represented 'a healthy mind in a healthy body'. On this occasion he had very kindly taken the time to note that it was good to see that Aziraphale's diet had improved so much since his last visit, pointedly ignoring the half-empty packet of biscuits and the packet of cigarettes on the coffee table as well as the many forgotten cocoa mugs scattered about - and the fact that the left-over casserole dish, which Aziraphale had had sitting on the counter in a bowl in order to defrost it for his dinner later that day, but had served for lunch as a bit of a Hail Mary - pun intended - was exactly the same as what Aziraphale had served last time, only this time he had used yellow squash rather than green when he cooked it, making the bits of veg much more visible in the ragout.   
"It's certainly ambitious. Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't making an effort," Aziraphale said, wracking his brain to find the most neutral choice of words possible. The plan was ridiculous, invasive, overbearing and pointless and Aziraphale's next work project with Deidre would be figuring out how to circumvent it as much as possible while looking like they were doing something about it.   
"Don't you worry, Father Fell, no one's saying that," the bishop said cheerfully.   
"They have never had any reason to," Father Sandalphon added.   
The five bites of ragout that Aziraphale had managed to stomach were fighting to crawl back out the same way they had gone in. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The quick-change had left his shirt-tucking with something to be desired and all he wanted right now was to get out of his clericals, which still smelled like old folks' home, and have a stiff whiskey and a cigarette.   
"Of course not," he said politely.   
"And how about you, then, Father Fell?" the bishop asked. "Any complaints come your way since we last spoke?"  
Aziraphale forced himself to not be gritting his teeth and wondered what Arpee had been saying just earlier outside the church.   
"None that come to mind..." he said with forced lightness. "People, on the whole, seem quite pleased with the job I do... as they have for the past sixteen years when I've been the youngest ever parish priest in your diocese..." he could not help but add, in what he hoped was a polite tone. Not that it would have mattered since the bishop's ability to read a tone of voice was nonexistent, but all the same. One had standards.  
"Ah yes. Lucky for you that the parish is small enough that it was deemed sensible to let you have the job," the bishop said. "A larger parish might not have allowed it."  
Aziraphale was genuinely unsure if the man thought he was giving out a compliment, merely making ordinary conversation, or having a go at him.   
"I believe your predecessor trusted me to carry on Father Alan's legacy..." he said, smiling stiffly at the bishop without really focusing on his face. "He was quite the trusting sort, the late bishop. Lord rest his soul."  
"I do my best to fill his shoes," the bishop said with what he presumably thought was humbleness.  
"And you do it well, your Excellence," Father Sandalphon budged in.   
Aziraphale had absolutely no comments on that topic. It was far out of his hands who was appointed to jobs further up the Hierarchy and apparently someone had reckoned that Gabriel Engels was right for the job, so who was he to judge. Although, bishop Engels had not so much _filled_ the shoes of the man who came before him and more so brought in a brand new, similar, but much more expensive designer pair, but best not to argue, lest the bishop decided to keep an even closer eye on Aziraphale's work routines.   
Aziraphale fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch and discreetly snuck a peek. It was nearly a quarter to four! He tried to come up with a way to suggest that the bishop leave without being rude, while also being blunt enough that the man would actually take a damn hint, but nothing came to mind.   
As if his prayers had been heard, there was suddenly a knock on the front door.   
"Oh!" Aziraphale shot out of his seat. "You'll have to excuse me, bishop, but, uh, that must be... one of my parishioners. In need of... guidance." He hurried to the front door and practically tore it open, to find - Crowley. Or, some version of Crowley, at least. It was not quite the weak, clammy, sickly Crowley from earlier in the week, but nor was it the usual sleek bastard;  
Crowley was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt at least two sizes too large despite the summer afternoon outside being perfectly warm and pleasant. The hood was pulled up and a few strands of red hair were poking out. He had on an old, scratched-up pair of turtleshell pattern sunglasses that looked like they had been through an intense spin in a tumble dryer. His legs were clad in the most nondescript pair of jeans Aziraphale had ever seen him in, and on his feet he had a pair of black wellies.   
"Crowley..?"   
"Yeah... Hi. 'M'I bothering you?" Crowley asked, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands and shuffling his feet.   
Aziraphale frowned.  
"The bishop's here," he said, lowering his voice a bit. "Now's not the best time - and what the Hell are you wearing??"  
"Oh, m'sorry, didn't wanna disturb nothing..." Crowley said much more loudly than Aziraphale would have liked. "I can jus' come back later when you're not busy..."   
"Who's this Father Fell?" the bishop asked, appearing in the doorway, smarmy yankee grin in place, making Aziraphale jump slightly.   
"No one!" Aziraphale replied shrilly. "Just - a neighbour."  
"Could jus' use someone t'talk to, but if Father A's got better things to do..." Crowley explained pitifully before grimacing minutely at Aziraphale.   
Aziraphale blinked.  
"Oh. Oh, nono! No, absolutely not! What could possibly be more important than _helping my neighbours_!" Aziraphale said loudly. " _Do_ come in, dear fellow! Bishop," he said, parking Crowley by the front door and returning to the main room. "you _will_ have to forgive me, but it seems that duty calls! Mustn't leave members of my community waiting..."  
The bishop's smile never faltered.  
"Of course!" he said sincerely. "If someone reckons they can use your advice, it's your duty to give it."  
Aziraphale was willing to ignore the semi-subtle jab if it meant he would be getting rid of the unwanted company.   
"Quite. I, um... I will be in touch, your Excellence," he said, gesturing keenly towards the front door. Crowley pressed himself further into his corner behind the door as the bishop and Father Sandalphon at a glacial pace began moving towards it. "regarding, uh... all your interesting plans."  
The bishop beamed his plastic smile. He looked massive, tall and broad next to Crowley, who looked unusually small and gangly in a way Aziraphale thoroughly disliked, his jean-clad legs reminiscent of two crooked pool noodles sticking out of a punctured beanbag.  
"Marvellous! And good luck with your work here! And your new dietary improvements! You'll be rid of the gut in no time!" he boomed, trapping Crowley completely in the corner as he opened the door wide. "And to you Mr Cowry!"  
Aziraphale watched through one of the small windows in the top of the door as Crowley's left brow did something rather peculiar, but then found himself distracted as Father Sandalphon gave him a hearty punch on the shoulder.  
"Good luck," the short, balding man echoed before scurrying off after the bishop.   
Aziraphale poked his head out and gave a quick, distracted wave before quickly shutting the door.  
"Rid of the gut, Christ on a bike with no saddle," Crowley sneered, swiping the hood off his head while stepping away from the corner.   
Aziraphale cringed.  
"Yes, the bishop is... very invested in the good health and longevity of his priests..."  
"And has the situational awareness of... something with really bad situational awareness," Crowley groused, kicking off his wellies. "An American..." he suggested as the second boot came flying off and probably left a scoff mark on Aziraphale's dusty skirting board.   
"Yes, well..." Aziraphale wanted to agree but was loathe to go into too much detail. It was one thing to gossip a little with Crowley and to indulge Crowley's firmly held dislikes of the Church. It was another to allow Crowley fully into the intricacies of the diocese like this, he felt. "Did you want something?"  
"Whu'?" Crowley had been folding up the beat-up sunglasses but now looked up with confusion on his face, his mouth hanging slightly open.  
"You came to see me. Looking like... goodness knows what," Aziraphale said, gesturing at Crowley's atypical attire. "Didn't you want to talk about... something?" Aziraphale had been so excited - and confused - to see Crowley at Mass earlier, but all that had quickly been drowned out by the presence of the bishop, to the point where Aziraphale had completely forgotten. But now, seeing Crowley looking so completely put out of joint, he suddenly worried if perhaps coming to Mass had been too much for Crowley. Perhaps it had stirred some bad memories and now Crowley was coming to Aziraphale for understanding and solace and -  
"Oh. That." Crowley stuck the leg of the glasses in the neckline of the sweatshirt. "Yeah. I came to chase the yankee-wankee and his goon out. Figured they'd have overstayed their welcome at this point."  
Aziraphale's bubble of... whatever that had been popped, gratitude washing over him instead.   
"I shouldn't be thanking you..." was the first thing that came tumbling out of his mouth as his brain scrambled to navigate his conflicting feelings, and it sounded terribly ungrateful. "I mean -"  
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Crowley smirked. "I promised not to save you again, but... eh."  
Aziraphale pulled at his waistcoat.   
"Yes, well." He cleared his throat. "I suppose I'll have to turn the other cheek, like Christ said. Even though you've been very wicked, lying to the bishop like that, interrupting an important meeting."  
"A meeting about what?" Crowley scoffed, resting one buttock on the arm of the sofa. "Your BMI?"   
Aziraphale swallowed hard.   
"Uh..." He chewed on his lip. "I should clear this away..." he said awkwardly, his eyes wandering over the tree plates on the small dinner table. That was a nice, easy dinner for two days gone, but what could one do? He was also well-aware that his plate was screaming of having barely been touched by food and that what little food had been on it was mostly still there. He prayed Crowley would not mention it. It was bad enough, enduring the bishop's commentary on his appearance in front of Crowley, but having a conversation about it all was bridge too far.   
"You hungry?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale bustled about, stacking the plates. "Oh, for fuck's sake, I've taken my shoes off now..."  
"I had lunch not too long ago."  
"That's what I thought," Crowley said with the air of a man who was ignoring what was being said and fully hearing what he was being told. "Listen, I'm in my socky feet, let's go for a smoke and then you could be a clever one and pop out and fetch us that bag in the bush by the fence?"  
Aziraphale put down the plates.  
"What bag?"  
"The one with the pub grub."  
"You brought food? ... And hid it in a bush."   
Crowley's tan got a top-up from the light that was lit in Aziraphale's eyes.   
"Couldn't very well just show up with dinner," he shrugged.  
Aziraphale did a very good impression of a man who had very little success in disguising his hurry as he went outside. He dove into the bush and fished out the plain white plastic bag while Crowley patted out onto the front step and lit two fags. He held the one out butt first, towards Aziraphale, who snapped it up and took a long drag of it, a look of bone-deep relief in his eyes. It pained Crowley how right his guess had been. From what little he had heard of the bishop and from what he knew about Aziraphale, the pair of them having lunch together had seemed like an awful idea, and it clearly had been.  
"Don't you dare thank me," Crowley said, holding up his hands in mock modesty.   
_No, seriously, don't thank me for not being like that arsehole, I couldn't bear it, Angel.  
_ "I wouldn't dream of it," Aziraphale snarked.   
"Any chance of wine with my chips?" Crowley prodded.  
"Is this shepherd's pie?" Aziraphale asked, eyeing the bag appraisingly.  
"I had a feeling you were a shepherd's pie kinda bloke."  
Aziraphale practically glowed.  
"There's absolutely a chance of wine, my dear. You've earned it."  
Crowley smiled. He had meant for it to be a smirk, but he was all too aware that it came out with not enough edge to it to qualify as a smirk.   
"So've you, Angel."

After one of Crowley's cigarettes, a change of clothes into something more casual, at least by his own standards, most of a shepherd's pie gone and his second glass of wine slowly being consumed, Aziraphale's mood had much improved, the tension that had building in his shoulder dissipating. Crowley had just finished explaining what on Earth he had been doing at Mass in the first place. It was a fairly funny story, especially the way Crowley told it, so much so that Aziraphale had even - successfully - tried his hand at a self-deprecating joke that it was bad luck that Crowley had decided to show up today of all days.   
"S'not like I'd've appreciated the effort anyway," Crowley shrugged with a smirk.   
Aziraphale sniffed. He was once again sitting on a dining chair with his feet propped up next to Crowley's on the sofa.   
"All the same. For the sake of my professional pride, if nothing else, it might've been nice to not make a complete ass of myself," he said.   
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"You di- Excuse me, what _is_ this??" he cut himself off, twisting and shifting on the sofa before digging his hand between two cushions of the seat. He retracted his hand and made a noise that could only be described as a delighted squawk. "Holy shit!"   
Aziraphale watched as his Nokia mobile phone was held up into the light.  
"Oh, that's where that went, then!" he said. "I'd been looking."  
"It has a missed call," Crowley noted, now prodding at the buttons. He held out the phone towards Aziraphale. There was indeed a missed call. From the bishop...  
Aziraphale groaned. The phone had gone missing Friday evening and he had not cared, because both the hospice and the old folks' home always called his landline anyway.   
"Oh, bugger me..."   
Crowley laughed.  
"Look at this old bastard," he cackled. "3310. You could probably sell this to a museum at this point." He began furiously hitting the buttons.  
"What are you doing?" Aziraphale asked.   
"Playing 'Snake'," Crowley said distractedly. "Haven't played a good game of 'Snake' in ages and ages." He made a discontented noise as Aziraphale clicked his tongue and snatched the phone from him.   
"Are we out of wine?" Aziraphale asked as he put the phone down on the coffee table where Crowley would be unable to reach it. Fancy if the ginger menace wasted his battery power so it would not last him until his weekly recharge on Wednesday!  
Crowley held up the bottle and shook it. It was the one Aziraphale had been drinking with his dinner for the last couple of days and had thusly been a few glasses short already when they started.  
"Yup. Doesn't matter." He got up from the sofa.   
"Are you leaving?" Aziraphale asked, struggling to hide his disappointment. Crowley had had a long and cringeworthy day, of course he would be going home at some point... But did it have to be so soon, when his company was doing such a marvellous job of cheering Aziraphale up after a right shocking morning... And afternoon...  
"I'm gonna pop home to fetch a bottle of plonk and change into something that isn't my winter sleepwear," Crowley said, plucking at his sweatshirt. "And then I'll be right back."  
Aziraphale nodded, most definitely only a normal, moderate amount of pleased to hear this. Not at _all_ on the edge of his seat with glee that Crowley would be coming back to keep him company for the evening. _Certainly_ not already planning out toast with marmite. _Anything_ but drowning in gratitude over everything that was Crowley, the food, the way he had lured the bishop away, the sheer sense of being looked out for...  
"Ah. Right. I really should be getting on with a few things, but if you insist," he said.   
Crowley was struggling his way into his wellies out by the front door.   
"I gave you an out with the bishop. But you've got no one to give you an out with me." He pulled a highly irritating, do-goodie grimace. "You're meant to be doing good clerical work, wasn't that what you told them? Can't have you telling porkies now, can we?"   
Aziraphale giggled as Crowley slipped out of the front door.

Crowley walked back to the shop to get the Bentley and hurried home, snatched whatever bottle of red first came within his reach and drove back to the rectory, feeling damn well pleased with himself. Aziraphale had been so happy to see him, both at Mass and later when he had swept in all smooth and clever and had gotten rid of that complete tosser of a bishop. And he had practically _pleaded_ with Crowley to stay! At least when Crowley was telling the story, he had. And Crowley would definitely be telling this story. To himself. Tonight. In bed.   
Naked.   
He was humming along to 'Killer Queen' as he pulled up in front of the rectory, his stupid mind too preoccupied to notice the small pile of bikes by the fence as he strutted up the front steps and let himself in.   
He froze in his tracks, even before the front door had closed behind him as a waft of fresh popcorn reached his nostrils. Then Grubby poked his head out into the small entryway.   
"Oh, hi, Crowley! Didn't know you were invited!" the boy grinned.  
 _I could bloody well say the same to you, kid...  
_ Crowley discreetly ditched the wine on the table by the door.  
"Surprise," he said smoothly.   
"Crowley?" Aziraphale appeared behind Grubby. "Brian, go help Adam with the popcorn, please." As the boy vanished further into the house, Aziraphale shot Crowley an apologetic look. "I forgot," he explained in a hushed voice. "We're going to watch a film. We've been doing this at some point during the summer for the last couple of years..." He groaned lightly. "It was Deidre's idea..." he explained long-sufferingly. "I'd forgotten it was tonight, honestly."  
Crowley was too far over the Moon at how deeply disappointed Aziraphale apparently was about missing out on an evening of the pair of them working up half a Monday morning hangover, to even care. The kids were bound to leave at some point, right? How long was a film anyway?  
"Youre making popcorn?" he asked.   
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Buckets of them! Oodles of popcorn," he said. "The first year, I cooked them actual dinner," he explained. "but frankly it seems much easier to just feed them popcorn and sweets. Thank goodness I had the foresight to buy the snacks last week..." From the kitchen squeals and howls of laughter could be heard. "You keep that lid on or you'll be sweeping the floor yourselves!" Aziraphale called out with panic in his eyes.   
"Sorry, Father A!"  
"What're we watching?" Crowley inquired, ignoring the fact that what they should really be watching was probably the nine-year-olds attempting to cook corn in hot oil on a gas stove.  
"'The Hunchback of Notre Dame'," Aziraphale said.   
Crowley hummed.   
"Bold choice," he noted.  
Aziraphale quirked a brow.  
"It's a cartoon. It's rated PG. That's ten and up. I checked. It'll be fine, I'm sure," he tutted. "How bad can it be, really?"   
All in all, Aziraphale's style of child-minding was beginning to shape up to be everything Crowley would have expected it to be, knowing everything he knew about the well-meaning but clueless, scatterbrained blond.   
"Starting to seem like a good thing I showed up," he said.   
Aziraphale frowned.  
"What do you mean?"   
Crowley smirked and shook his head without elaborating.  
"Nothing. I hope you made enough popcorn."  
"But, uh..." Aziraphale's eyes darted about. "Will you be joining us?"   
"I don't see why not?" Crowley said.   
Aziraphale looked like he wanted to argue, but let it go.   
"If you like..." he said, gesturing politely for Crowley to walk further into the house.  
The coffee table had been pushed all the way towards the fireplace, the floor in front of it littered with every throw cushion Aziraphale owned as well as Specs and Pinkie in the process of setting up a laptop for playing the film on the table amongst several bottles of fizzy drink, a selection of crisps and a sizable pile of different bags of sweets. Out in the kitchen, Adam and Grubby were apparently having an absolute ball cleaning up the spilled popcorn.   
"I didn't know you were invited," Pinkie said, shooting Crowley her usual disapproving, butter-would-not-melt-in-her-mouth look.   
"Foresight decided that adult supervision was required," Crowley said elegantly, ignoring the frown it earned him from Aziraphale.   
"That's good," Specs said. "'cos we're not actually old enough to watch this film."   
"It's a cartoon made for children," Aziraphale said placatingly. "I'm sure they're just being overzealous with the rating, they often are. Isn't that so, Crowley?"  
Crowley had been pouring himself a glass of lemonade, just to get in the spirit of things.  
"Uh - Yeah. Yup. Definitely," he managed, forcing his laughter back down his throat from whence it came.   
"I mean," Aziraphale scoffed. "if you can't show a cartoon to children, who can you show it to??"

About halfway through the film, Aziraphale's certainty that 'showing a cartoon to children' was a straightforward business, had very visibly crumbled. Very much like Crowley had figured it would. The children seemed overjoyed with the picture, laughing at the silly talking gargoyles and booing and throwing popcorn at the dirty old judge bloke as he got handsy with the pretty lady at the cathedral while Aziraphale looked both shocked and horrified.   
About halfway through that creepy song that Crowley had been rather looking forward to, the blond got up from the sofa.   
"I need a cup of tea..." he muttered, a shellshocked look on his face.   
Crowley got up too, unfolding his legs from the curled-up positing he had been sitting in, bringing with him the bowl of popcorn that had been sat on the sofa between him and Aziraphale and navigated his way to the kitchen between the legs of three of the kids dramatically singing along while Specs peered nervously out from behind a pillow.   
"Don't you say it. Don't you damn well _dare_ say it..!" Aziraphale fussed as he filled the kettle.  
"Wuhn't fayin' nuffin," Crowley protested through a mouthful of popcorn that he could barely hold in due to his wide, shit-eating grin.   
"Did you know this??" Aziraphale continued, outraged.  
"Know wha'?" Crowley munched innocently.   
"That it was absolutely - untoward and inappropriate!" Aziraphale continued, hissing shrilly under his breath as the minister's voice from the sitting room promised to burn the pretty lady if she refused to bone him.   
"I couldn't just cancel movie night!" Crowley protested. "I'm not here to play boogyman to your nice uncle act! They'd've been so disappointed if we'd called it off, they were the ones who brought the film and all!"  
"I'm a priest!" Aziraphale low-volume screeched while the kettle came to a boil with a loud whistle. "I can't - show that sort of thing to kids!"  
"It's a moral tale of bad shit happening to creepy old men!" Crowley tried to reassure him as the look in Aziraphale's eyes took a rather severe turn. He had not really considered _that_ sort of implication, both because this was _Aziraphale_ , for crying out loud, and because showing a cartoon to kids who were barely too young for the rating was hardly a crime. "It's based on a literary classic! It's Disney! You weren't to know they were going through a dark place during the early to mid 90's..."  
Aziraphale looked somewhat reassured as he began bustling about for a mug and a tin of tea.   
"I got some of that nice blend," he said, clearly wanting to change the topic. "from that place. From the village fair day, remember?"  
"The cuppa that got away," Crowley joked dryly as Pinkie walked in from the sitting room with a glum look on her face.   
"Hello there, Pepper," Aziraphale said. "Is something the matter?"   
"Just need a drink," the girl muttered, plucking a glass from a cabinet with familiarity and filling it with tap water. "My tummy hurts..."  
The look of panic on Aziraphale's face seemed utterly disproportionate to that statement.   
"Oh. Goodness." He looked to Crowley, clearly for support that Crowley was unable to give since he was unsure what he was meant to be supporting. "Are you -" Aziraphale continued, wringing his hands nervously. "going through that time of month, dear? If there's an issue I think Deidre has a box of... related products at the bathroom at the office building -"  
He fell silent when Petra shot him a look.  
"I'm barely ten," she deadpanned. "I just ate two bags of Haribo and a whole bag of salt and vinegar crisps. I just need a glass of water."  
She shuffled back to watch the film with her mates while Aziraphale's will to ever leave his house again slowly shriveled up before Crowley's eyes.   
Crowley sputtered with laughter.  
"That showed you," he cackled. "I'm not sure what exactly it showed you, but it showed you!"  
Aziraphale's ears were as red as Crowley's hair.   
"That's hardly funny!" he howled. "What do I know about when they... start those things! I just didn't want her to be alone with it if she was uncomfortable!"  
"No one was uncomfortable until you opened your mouth," Crowley snickered, but he quickly got hold of himself when Aziraphale balked. "Hey. Relax. She doesn't care," he said sincerely. "She's one of those 'break the taboo' sorts, she just thinks you're old and lame, that's all. It was nice thing you did. Or tried to do. It would've been a nice thing if you hadn't been so glaringly wrong," he finished, once again snickering.   
Aziraphale half-heartedly stirred his tea egg slightly in his mug before dumping it in the sink.   
"Yes, well... It's just... it's delicate, isn't it?" he said quietly. "With the... with the children and... well."  
It was, that much was true. But it also really, really was not.   
"Nah. Nothing delicate about sitting down and shutting up while we finish the film," Crowley shrugged. "C'mon."

The kids had been sent off home, each of them with a tummy ache, leaving behind a reconstruction of the saving of Jerusalem, made entirely with plastic wrapping, fizzy drink bottles and stray popcorn. Aziraphale sighed at the wreckage while Crowley finally poured them both a glass of that wine he had brought after slinking out to have three drags of a fag. Aziraphale had declined joining him, citing a desire to keep his consumption to a minimum.   
"I shall be cleaning that up... another time," Aziraphale announced, slumping into the sofa and accepting a glass from Crowley.   
"Sounds like a plan," Crowley said languidly, settling into his usual spot on the opposite end of the sofa with his own drink and plucking off his sunglasses. "You can tell they had fun," he noted, brushing a squashed popcorn off his sock.   
"I just hope their parents won't be too affronted about the film..." Aziraphale said, squirming. "It was rather more... forward than I had expected. I mean, I know the original story well enough, but... I thought it was meant for children, this."  
"It is!" Crowley said. "Look, I did the same thing when my ex's kid was about six. Popped this in the VCR and got a bit of a surprise. He wasn't traumatized."  
"No, but... it just. Looks different..." Aziraphale mumbled, spinning his glass between his hands. "When I'm..." He groaned. "It already feels like a gamble, inviting them over like this for the evening... Usually the films I show them are perfectly benign..."  
"Honestly, relax with the kids thing. You aren't doing anything wrong," Crowley said.   
"No, but people say so many ugly things... About... you know."  
"Priests?"  
"Well... That too..."  
"Is that why you weren't too keen on me joining movie night?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale's eyes went wide and round.  
"It's not like that, Crowley!" he said quickly. "I'm not - I don't mean - it's just..."  
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, Angel."  
"People just say so many horrid things..." Aziraphale said in a small, apologetic voice. "I just... I'm sorry -"  
"Has anyone been saying stuff about you?" Crowley interrupted, very _very_ calmly, wondering to himself if the local forests were large enough to hide a body in.   
Aziraphale quickly shook his head.  
"Nono, not me personally, but... in general. Both priests, as you said and..." he trailed off, wringing his hands. "Have you never... worried?" he then asked suddenly, looking up at Crowley. "That there was something... severely wrong with you. If one thing was... amiss, then maybe there were also... other..."  
"There's nothing wrong you," Crowley said firmly. "In one way or the other."   
Aziraphale smiled weakly.   
"I'm surprised to hear you of all people put so much trust in a priest," he quipped sadly.   
"I wouldn't trust a priest further than I could throw him," Crowley said. "but you're not a nonce, Angel. That's all there is to it."  
Aziraphale shook his head.   
"No, but..." He sighed deeply. "Everyone says that. About their local priest. That's how all those wicked, horrid people were allowed to... continue. No one believes that someone they know is... bad like that. Until one day it turned out that so many people had been so wrong and suddenly the entire World was looking at us all with all that suspicion..." He swallowed hard a few times. "And they were entitled to it," he continued, voice trembling. "There was nothing you could say... All you could do was bear it and wish it hadn't been so, but it had. And suddenly everything felt so bloody dirty and wrong..."  
Crowley chewed on his tongue and tried to think of something to say. He had no comforting words for this, honestly. The numerous scandals of molestations and cover-ups were exactly the sort of thing he knew to expect from the Church and why he despised it.  
"But I'm hardly the victim here, am I?" Aziraphale continued briskly before Crowley could put his foot in his mouth. "All I can do is do my job, fill my spot... keep my flock safe," he said, nodding determinately to himself.   
"It can't have been fun," Crowley admitted. He did not give a single flying fuck if some innocent priest somewhere was getting an ulcer worrying that he might be wrongfully suspected of something or other, but Aziraphale looked absolutely wrecked right now and it tugged at every single string left on Crowley's cynical, blackened heart. Angel was much too decent a person to deserve this sort of stress.   
"It feels so selfish, worrying about how I'm perceived," Aziraphale said in a small voice. "All those people out there who had been ruining the Lord's Church... ruining all those poor innocent little lives and I'm sitting here concerned about _me_..."  
 _Those people didn't ruin the Church, Angel, they_ are _the Church...  
_ "It's not nice to feel accused," Crowley said, honestly baffled at how they could agree so much on a topic while not agreeing at all. "'Specially not of gross stuff like that."  
"People come to us for salvation and instead they find us infected with the Devil's wickedness..." Aziraphale mumbled, his eyes distant. "Who on Earth can you trust if you can't trust a priest. It's utterly disgraceful."  
"Yeah, well..." Crowley shrugged. "They can trust you, can't they? The people around here. That's the best you can do." He plucked up the courage to reach out and pat Aziraphale awkwardly on the shoulder. Aziraphale blinked and looked down at his hand with a stunned look on his face.   
"It is, yes..." he said.   
"Why do you host these 'dos if they stress you out like this?" Crowley asked.   
Aziraphale sighed.   
"Like I said, it was Deidre's idea. 'If you've done nothing wrong, why worry', she said. And she's right... The kids are perfectly safe here, so acting funny about it would only look... well. Funny." He chuckled dryly. "The most danger they're in here is Wensley getting sick. His mother was not quite pleased with me last year."  
Crowley laughed.  
"It's a lesson they gotta learn," he said. "They won't know how much is too much if you don't let them test it out." He rearranged his legs and pursed his lips. "Speaking of 'lessons'... How on Earth do you now about periods? 'Cos I know for a damned fact that it wasn't Catholic sex ed that did it."   
"Oh, that." Aziraphale drained his glass. "Well, I work with a woman every day, don't I?" he said. "So it just sort of... comes up in conversation. Naturally. Eventually."   
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"Her period naturally came up in conversation with her priest employer," Crowley said. "Right."  
"She left a few products, like I said, in the little cabinet under the bathroom sink at the office," Aziraphale scoffed. "And I found them and... well."  
"You got confused?"  
Aziraphale pulled a face.  
"The only tampons I had ever in my life heard mention of were the ones at the dentists office. Poor woman had to explain it to me, must've been mortifying for her. I know it certainly was for me," he finished miserably.   
"She's a very understanding woman, Miss Moneypenny, I'm sure she persevered," Crowley said, pouring himself another glass of wine and holding out the bottle towards Aziraphale.   
"All the same, I feel like it isn't the sort of thing her contract requires of her," Aziraphale tutted.   
Crowley laughed.   
"Someone's gotta do it," he said. "It's not like school taught us jackshit."  
"Did you have sexual education at all at St Jude's?" Aziraphale said surprisedly.   
Crowley shook his head, then smirked impishly.  
"I mean, that depends how you look at it, doesn't it?" he said. "Obviously, the only official lessons we got on it was 'you're only allowed to put it in a lady and not until you're married otherwise you're a little pervert', but I mean... if you fancied the climb over the fence to the cricket field, anatomy lessons were free."   
Aziraphale looked appalled, but it was most likely at Crowley's deliberately cheesy choice of words.   
Crowley chuckled.  
"It was a big old place, chuckers with kids who were there because we had been misbehaving. What did they expect from us?" He snorted. "At least we used condoms. You know, like the rebels we were."  
Aziraphale smirked.   
"I don't think that's what the Church was hoping to achieve, but..."  
"They'd better appreciate it, the pricks," Crowley scoffed. "Enough girls got pregnant in that place already, they should just be glad that we weren't adding to that problem at least."  
"Where did you get... those things?" Aziraphale asked, cursing inwardly at how awkward he sounded saying that.   
"We had friends on the other side," Crowley said. "Older Judas kids who had been kicked out. They got us stuff like drugs and booze and condoms."  
"That's... nice..." Aziraphale said dubiously.   
Crowley smirked.   
"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "We actually did learn something from it. The folks on the outside got tampons for the girls too, for that time of month, 'cos obviously the nuns over at the girls' wing weren't any help. They just scolded them. It was bloody ridiculous, a bunch of kids left to their own devices with cramps and blood pissing out the bottom, trying to figure out their own shit while the grownups did nothing beyond shame them for existing," he scoffed.  
Aziraphale bit his lip and nodded to himself.   
"May I ask you something?" he said carefully.   
"I believe you're in full swing already," Crowley noted, sipping his wine.  
"You, uh, you said you weren't... I mean, when you were a child..." Aziraphale began delicately. "At St Jude's I mean. No one ever... that's what you said, right?"  
Crowley decided to spare him the agony of finishing the sentence.  
"Nah, I wasn't," he said. "No one likes gingers," he then added with a grim smirk.  
Aziraphale scoffed at the crude joke.   
"Really, now."  
Crowley shrugged.  
"I told you, you get calloused."  
"Were there... many?" Aziraphale asked.   
"A handful during my time, I'd say," Crowley said darkly, chewing on his lip. "One of the teachers. Blonde girls, mostly. One of the younger nuns was suspected too, at one point."  
"But it was at least discovered?" Aziraphale asked, not quite sure why he sounded so hopeful.   
Crowley pulled a face.  
"Define 'discovered'," he said. "We all knew, amongst the students. Probably the teachers too, but I wouldn't actually know, would I? But St Jude's was a lot like village life, really. The gossip mill was running full throttle and stories usually had a way of being spread around."  
"What happened to the teacher?"  
"He was fired, after a while," Crowley said. "I mean, years of it. He'd been there for a decade when I came and he got the boot the year before I left." He cocked his head. "How about St David's? Any hush-hush scandals happen in poshtown?"   
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"I wouldn't know. If there were, they were hushed so thoroughly I didn't hear of them... but I suppose that doesn't mean... Wickedness is everywhere." He frowned to himself. "Did you say one of your nuns was caught... in misconduct?"  
Crowley hummed through a mouthful of wine and waved a hand about.   
"Well, that's the thing, innit," he said. "Like I said, stories had a way of getting out in that place, but... this was never really a story. It was just this weird, loose tale that was told, but no one had any actual dirt on it. But as the gossip went, a few of the guys were out of bed late one night, sneaking about for the Hell of it and heard something that sounded an awful lot like two people getting it on, in a classroom. They didn't wanna get caught of course, so they just buggered off in the opposite direction. Then a little later they saw one of the nuns come walking down the corridor and when they passed the classroom again, the show was over. So no nuns were actually caught. I mean, she could have been out there for another reason, they had no proof that it was her. But in an institution full of randy teenagers who hate the staff it's bound to turn into a story, obviously. That one of the nuns fucked a student and all that."  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Imagine if it was true! That's awful..."  
Crowley nodded but then shook his head.  
"Like I said, there were a few nasty thing that happened and everyone always knew all the names involved, no matter how much people tried to keep quiet about it, but we never heard a plausible suggestion for a name for this particular case, nothing that really seemed to stick. That's why we were all pretty certain that it's a red herring. Keeping something like that to yourself in that place would be the covert achievement of the century! There's no way it could've been done."  
"Perhaps she met with another member of staff," Aziraphale suggested. "Or maybe even a student who was somehow gaining something from it?" he continued conspiratorially.   
Crowley made a doubtful noise and stretched languidly, his back giving off a few satisfying pops.  
"Honestly, I'm not even sure it was her in there. Bitch was carved of stone, having sex seems a notch too human for her," he said, twisting and turning on the sofa with a pleased groaned.   
Aziraphale sipped his wine.  
"Did no one try to claim it?" he asked, ignoring the way Crowley's t-shirt had ridden up out of his jeans. "I mean, seducing a nun... I know first hand what young women can be like when they see a dog collar..."  
Crowley chuckled weakly.   
"Poor broads, trying in vain..." he said enigmatically, lightly scratching his stomach.   
"Quite..." Aziraphale averted his eyes and instead shot his wine a look. With the way Crowley was lounging about, a wistful look in his warm yellow eyes as he thought back on his mottled past, perhaps it was advisable that Aziraphale stop drinking... Although it was a very nice wine indeed.  
It was entirely unfair, Aziraphale sulked to himself as he carefully put his wine glass down on the side table by the sofa. Crowley lying around like that, looking so... damn handsome when he knew full well what Aziraphale's stance on that whole... _thing_ was. It was bloody rude, coming into Aziraphale's home like that, just oozing casually alluring energy and driving Aziraphale up the walls after an utterly shocking day that was bound to leave him tired and susceptible and -   
Slowly turning into the angry old bloke from the film, cursing some random lady who had done nothing but perform a dancing gig, blaming her for his own moral struggles.   
It was one thing to be weak. It was another to be a hypocrite. Crowley had said he reckoned Aziraphale was not a hypocrite, to _that_ kind anyway, and it had felt like such a massive compliment. Aziraphale did not want to be a hypocrite. But it was hard to not be at least a little bitter when Crowley was arching his back in such a way and his untucked t-shirt was riding up over his stomach like that...  
Aziraphale would just have to pray on that tonight, he decided. It was only human to struggle, that was the whole point, to overcome the struggles. An unchallenged faith was a weak faith. This was fine. Totally fine... At least there could be no question if Crowley was an adult or not, so really, finding him pleasing to the eye was hardly so bad. It could have been much, much worse...  
"Something wrong?"   
Aziraphale blinked back to reality.   
"This has just been very odd day," he said. "Bit of a rollercoaster, you might say." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's not easy being human..." he mumbled.  
"You seem to be doing alright," Crowley said quietly. "There's nothing wrong with you or what you're doing or what you look like," he continued firmly, turning on the sofa to look intently at Aziraphale and placing a reassuring hand on his knee. "The bishop's a wanker and the mean arseholes in the cheap seats out there know fuck all. There's nothing wrong with you," he repeated.  
Aziraphale dared not meet his gaze.  
"Isn't there?"  
Crowley shook his head.  
Aziraphale sighed deeply, looking down at the hand on his knee, warm and kind and squeezing lightly in reassurance. He then dared cast a glance to one side, meeting Crowley's eyes, big, yellow things, round and intense, staring at him, exactly as dangerous as he had expected - and his backbone too weak because it had been a very long and tiring day and Crowley had been so terribly sweet all the way through, coming to Mass, getting rid of the bishop...  
He caught the briefest glimpse of Crowley's eyes widening in surprise, then his own lids fluttered closed and his mouth hit Crowley's. It almost surprised him too, frankly. A part of him had figured he would get nothing but a wry chuckle and a mouthful of air, but Crowley said nothing. His lips just parted slightly and his grasp on Aziraphale's knee tightened slightly.  
As they broke apart, Aziraphale thought that perhaps now he would receive some sardonic comment, an inquiry as to what has happened to all his clever reasons and protestations - truth be told, he himself was wondering in that moment - but nothing came. Crowley just dove in for another space-warping, time-altering kiss to make the World stand still on its axis, his arm abandoning Aziraphale's knee in favour of wrapping itself around the back of his neck instead.   
As the kiss dragged on, Crowley seemed to grow further bold and swung himself up onto his knees in order to clamber awkwardly over to straddle Aziraphale's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck and burying a hand in his hair. Then, just as Aziraphale was certain his spine was going to melt completely, Crowley broke the kiss, drawing back and searching Aziraphale's eyes.   
Aziraphale swallowed. Crowley was waiting for him to run away again. Explaining why he was not was way too complicated, Aziraphale decided and instead simply pulled the redhead down for another kiss before wrapping his arms around the slender frame above him. He was much too tired for any running...

Things very quickly got... familiar, in a sense. Easy. Like they barely had to do any figuring out in order to slot neatly together, there on the sofa and at some point during their snog they had apparently started grinding against each other. Crowley chuckled darkly against the thin skin just below Aziraphale's ear.   
"Nice to see you too," he muttered, while a bony hand idly stroked over Aziraphale's sweater vest. He leaned back trying to choke down a grin. Aziraphale had flushed beet red and was not meeting his gaze. Crowley gently slipped his arms around the flustered blond's neck.   
"Would you like to slip away into the night again?" he offered, trying to hide the uncertainty in his voice under a teasing tone, since he was not quite convinced that Aziraphale had taken the hint at an opportunity to call it off just earlier. He leaned back into Aziraphale's neck and gave it a hard nibble. "Leave me with nothing but my hand and my imagination..."  
The only response he got was a hard intake of breath and a tightening of Aziraphale's fingers on his hips.   
"Oh, _your_ imagination liked that, did it?" he crowed. "Want me to tell you about it?"   
Aziraphale had gone stiff as a board and his breathing had become somewhat labored.  
"If you're inclined to share..." he mumbled.  
"Aw, lovely, I'm beyond inclined." Crowley cooed gleefully. "You've no idea how much I've thought of you since last time... Been stuck at the forefront of my mind, you have."  
"Oh, really?"  
Was Aziraphale's voice trembling? Oh, how delicious was this, his little Angel all pliable and needy in his arms... Crowley figured this was his potentially only shot ever and decided to go big or go home.   
"Mmm, been thinking about getting my hands all over you," he muttered, dragging his hand slowly and deliberately down Aziraphale's side. "Been thinking about that a lot. Been imagining us doing this sorta thing together. Been touching myself thinking about it."  
"I - ooh! - I'm sure reality wouldn't live up to your imagination..." Aziraphale stammered while Crowley dragged the split tip of his tongue up the shell of his ear.   
"You've already surpassed it," Crowley purred, letting his hand skate closely by the bulge in Aziraphale's trousers. "Just sitting here like this, all flushed and cute..."  
Aziraphale shifted and looked away shyly muttering something under his breath. Crowley hummed against his temple.  
"What was that?"  
"I'm hardly impressive," Aziraphale mumbled, shrugging.  
Crowley's curiosity rose like a tsunami.   
"So there's actually been someone who wasn't impressed?" he asked. He had wondered if it was at all statistically possible that a cute, charming man like Aziraphale could go make it through a bachelors degree without getting some, but then again... Knowing Aziraphale...   
It was both comforting to know that he was not the first to see something worth pursuing in the blond, but to think that this person had felt less than honoured was infuriating.  
"There was one... Before..." Aziraphale said lowly.  
"In college?" Crowley asked gently.   
Aziraphale huffed out a laugh that could almost have been a sob.   
"At seminary actually." He finally looked up at meet Crowley's gaze, a small smirk and a look of 'yeah, I know' on his face.   
Crowley tried to disguise a smirk of his own with a sympathetic pout. Teasing would have been so easy, gloating too, but Crowley fancied a challenge now and again and kept quiet. For a moment they looked at each other, then Aziraphale sighed.   
"But that was a long time ago..." he muttered, dropping his eyes back to his folded hands.  
Crowley decided that there was no time like the present to stir things up.  
"What happened?" he asked gently.  
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"What do you think happened?" he asked heatedly throwing his hands out towards the room around them. Then he sagged deeper into the sofa than ever. "We... had a fling. And then he left and I stayed," he said. "And that was that."  
Neither of them said anything for a long time while the rain drummed against the windows. Crowley's mind was currently treating him to a dramatic scene of some commonly attractive guy with a suitcase in one hand and a trilby in the other, pleading with Aziraphale to come with him and Aziraphale storming away, tear-streaked face and all. The concept hurt in several complicated ways, neither of which Crowley was not about examine further.  
"And he wasn't impressed?" he asked instead. Hah. Loser. Crowley was impressed. Crowley was right here, not about to fuck off into nowhere and very much impressed. His impressed ness was doing its level best to permanently pull the cloth of jeans out of shape, that was how impressed he was!  
"Fumbling touches in the broom cupboard and his room... and a few kisses at the back of the theatre once. Wasn't much to be impressed by," Aziraphale said with a look in his eyes that clearly told that he himself had in fact been quite impressed.   
Crowley wanted nothing more than to drown out those shabby little memories with something actually worth remembering.  
"Can I touch you?" he mumbled, his hands restless against the wool flannel of Aziraphale's trousers, skirting just that close but not touching anything. "Please?" he whispered, his hips jerking slightly. This was too bloody good, the gorgeous bastard actually making him beg. "I'll make you feel so good, I promise. It'll be way better than that other bloke, pretty, I swear."  
Aziraphale said nothing but any sort of rigidity that had remained in him dissolved and his hips canted up into Crowley's hand. Crowley pressed a faint kiss into a blond sideburn and smirked.  
"Tell me what you want," he muttered. "I won't be disappointed."  
Aziraphale took a deep breath and hid his face in the crook of Crowley's neck.   
"Just... touch me." he ground out in a high pitched voice.   
Crowley happily obliged, sliding his hand fully into Aziraphale's lap, curling his fingers and -  
"Oh. Ooh, Angel, baby, darling," he purred. "You're just full of surprises aren't you?"  
Aziraphale shifted in his seat, and hissed lightly when the action just ground his erection into Crowley's hand.   
Crowley chuckled.  
"Yesss, that's it, sweetie, come take what you want," he cooed. "You wanna keep going like this? Maybe we should get rid of a few layers. Wouldn't want to make a mess of you. Or perhaps you want me to get you off like this?" He leaned down and bit gently at Aziraphale's earlobe. "Get your pretty slacks all dirty, would that be nice?"  
Aziraphale shook his head, his forehead still against Crowley's shoulder.   
"N-no, you can..." His head veered about for a moment before he gave up.   
Crowley laughed breathily and gave him another squeeze through his trousers.  
"You want it out, eh? Fine by me, lets me have a good, long look at you and this fat little miracle you've been hiding all along..."   
At the last remark Aziraphale pushed away, huffing loudly and rolling his eyes. Crowley smirked. He made quick work of the fly of Aziraphale's trousers and pulled out his hard cock with a hungry noise. He looked up through his lashes at Aziraphale's face, redder than ever, blue eyes looking everywhere but at Crowley.  
"Would you just look at thisss..."   
"I'm aware it's a bit... eh. Unusually proportioned, I suppose..." Aziraphale muttered, sort of shrinking in on himself in a way that Crowley absolutely needed to stop immediately. "Like I said, hardly impressive..."  
"Oh, you've nothing to look so shy about, baby, you're deliciousss," Crowley purred.  
He had imagined Aziraphale thick, but... a porn-average sort of thick. And longer. Boringly porn-average in every way, really, come to think of it. Had he even been properly _using_ his imagination?? In reality Aziraphale was definitely on the short side but much thicker than Crowley had dreamt, the head a dark, desperate shade of red, already fully pushed out of the foreskin and the base disappearing into a nest of dark blond curls.   
"So fucking hot..!" Crowley whined, wrapping his fingers around the length of it and giving it a few light strokes. He had long fingers but his thumb and middle finger only just brushed each other. He swallowed a large mouthful of saliva and tried to pull himself together, just a little.   
Aziraphale whimpered and leaned his head back over the sofa, arching into Crowley's touch. His hands had crawled from Crowley's hips and towards his middle, hiking his shirt up and scratching lightly at his stomach. Crowley growled lowly and thrust his hips forward, pressing Aziraphale's thick head against the bulge in his jeans. Aziraphale whimpered even louder.  
"That's right, beautiful, you be loud for me now. No more seminary, no more hiding in dark corners. Just you and me, all alone," Crowley ground out.  
Aziraphale took a few shaky breaths while Crowley leisurely continued to stroke him.  
"Could - could you... Can I..?" Aziraphale rambled, eyes flickering between Crowley's face and the strain in his jeans.  
"Can you what, pretty? Anything you want, it's yours, just ask."  
Aziraphale tried to get the words out but in the end gave him up with an annoyed noise before batting Crowley's hands out of the way and having a go at loosening his belt.   
Crowley happily let him.  
"That's it, help yourself to anything you like," he purred. As Aziraphale managed to wrestle the zipper open he lifted himself up off his haunches to allow his jeans and pants to be pulled down around the top of this thighs. Aziraphale's face was immediately back in the crook of his neck while his fingers wrapped themselves around Crowley's throbbing length, warm and soft.   
"There you are," Crowley murmured gently, his free hand sliding up to wrap around Aziraphale's to guide it lightly to a slow pace. He pressed a kiss into the mop of blond hair before gently nudging Aziraphale away from him. "Sit up for a bit, darling, so I can have a look at it all."  
Aziraphale's shirt had hiked up slightly on his stomach with Crowley's ministrations, revealing a bit of the messy trail of fluff from his navel down over the curve of his soft, wobbly belly. Crowley caught the exact moment the blond self-consciously sucked his gut in a little.  
"I'm uh... not as neatly trimmed as you..." he mumbled, eyeing the skin revealed by Crowley's undone clothes.   
He was technically correct. Crowley kept his balls clean-shaven and his pubes and treasure trail were trimmed short and neat. He liked the look and the feel and he honestly wished he had not freshened the whole cut up yesterday in a fit of 'why the fuck not'. Anything that made Aziraphale curl up in this sad little way with that awful look in his eyes was a mistake. Crowley tried to atone for his faux-pas by leaning in and licking up Aziraphale's neck while thumbing lightly at a bead of precum at his slit and just... changing the fucking subject. Manscaping was hardly the main attraction here.  
"Just look how you're already dripping for me, how that fat cock of yours is weeping," he crowed.   
It got him the response he was hoping for. Aziraphale whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against Crowley's. Crowley tried to remember the last time jerking another guy off on a sofa had felt this... cute. Intimate. Had made his throat close up and his stomach churn like this. Had it ever before?  
His breath caught in his throat and he was pulled abruptly out of his own thoughts as Aziraphale brushed a thumb against his frenulum and made his entire body twitch.  
"Ah! Mmm, Angel, you learn that in seminary?" he choked out, half moaning, half chuckling. "That bloke show you to do that? Or maybe that's what you do for yourself when you're alone, hmm? When you're being a proper little Angel..."  
Aziraphale looked ready to implode. At this point his cock was just leaking a thin but steady stream of precum onto Crowley's fingers and his chest was heaving. His hand around Crowley's cock twitched slightly. He seemed to be holding back, trying to match Crowley's torturously slow and gentle touch.   
"Please... Crowley..!"  
Crowley lit up in somewhat dazed smile.   
"Yes, what? What do you want, sweetie, just tell me and I'll do it."  
"Go faster, please..." Aziraphale moaned desperately.   
Crowley sped up marginally and leaned in to whisper against Aziraphale's ear.  
"Like this? Or faster yet? Was that how you did it at seminary?" he whispered, biting his lip. "Just a quick thing, get it over with and slip away like nothing had happened? Seems like a waste of such a pretty view," He cast a long glance down towards Aziraphale's erection. "That fella should've appreciated this nice thing he had a little more..." he muttered, looking up at Aziraphale through his lashes, yellow devil eyes meeting round blue ones.   
"He did..!" Aziraphale protested weakly, his hand faltering. "It just... we didn't have t-time - time to make it... nice... We had to... be careful."  
Crowley leaned in and stole a quick kiss.  
"You don't have to be careful right now, pretty." he hissed softly, guiding Aziraphale's hand back into action. "We can do whatever you like, at any pace you like. You wanna keep doing this? Wanna finish all over my hand? Want to watch me jack off, a private show all for you? I've imagined that, you know. You watching me while I'm touching myself, stroking my cock... fingering myself. Me all naked and you rubbing your fat, hard cock through your trousers, staying all calm and composed while I'm a whimpering mess."   
Aziraphale whined and bit his lip and his eyes fluttered shut once more. His fingers clenched deliciously around the head of Crowley's member and the nails of his free hand dug into the skin of Crowley's hip where it had settled. Distantly, Crowley hoped there would be some sort of mark left behind tomorrow. His mouth had gone dry from panting and huffing. He swallowed hard against his parched tongue as he looked down at their hands stroking each other so close together, his own hand shiny from the eager mess Aziraphale was making.   
"Seriously, shouldn't be bloody allowed, cock as delicious as this," he crowed. "What else did your friend teach you? Is this all you ever did? He never get on his knees for you and blow you? I hope he didn't just steal one off you and leave you out to dry. Bastard had no business doing that to pretty little you."  
"Well..." Aziraphale seemed to have trouble forming sentences and watching Crowley's cock in his own hand at the same time. He blinked owlishly and cleared his throat, only to be interrupted by Crowley giving a pointed little squeeze to the rim of his head. He swallowed a moan and tried again; "He did... use his mouth. Once. But we were disturbed and... well, he left soon after that..." he finished.   
Crowley nudged his nose against Aziraphale's cheek.  
"Did you like it? Did he do a good job?"  
"I... I suppose he did?" Aziraphale said, slightly uncertainly. "I didn't mind it... Not sure how great he thought it was, he said it made his jaw -" He ducked his head slightly. "said his jaw got... s-sore..."   
Crowley cackled and dove in to nibble at an earlobe blushed furiously red and hot.  
"I fucking bet it did, the size of thisss," he whispered. "You wouldn't have heard me complain. I can't get 'em thick enough. Fuck length, who the Hell needs cock all the way up to their belly button anyway? Just give me a nice, thick, juicy thing to stretch me open..."   
He reached down and held Aziraphale's hand still and canted his hips into it while Aziraphale stared, mesmerised, his cock leaking more than ever. Bloody perfect it was...  
"Would you like to try it again?" Crowley offered.  
Aziraphale looked up abruptly, confused. He had clearly been zoned out again, and that honestly had to be one of the best things ever.  
"What?"   
"Having your dick sucked," Crowley said plainly and enjoyed the sight of Aziraphale nearly going cross-eyed. He decided to lay it on thick. Or _thicker_ , he supposed it was, really, at this point. "I'd love to, if you'd let me," he continued, snuggling against the light onset of stubble on Aziraphale's cheek and picking up speed a little with his own hand. "I'd suck you off so, so good, I'd take it any way you told me, I'd be so good for you..." He rocked his hips a little faster into Aziraphale's hand. "You could come any way you wanted, on my face or in my mouth, I'd drink it down for you," he whimpered shamelessly. "You could pull my hair if you wanted, hold my head still while you fucked my mouth, I'd take it all. I could strip down, do it naked, jerk off while your cock was in my mouth. Would that be -"  
Crowley's continuous stream of filth was cut short as Aziraphale tensed up with a choked-off noise and came between his fingers, long and hard. Finally he slumped back into his seat, breathing heavily, eyes closed. After a few long moments his eyes blinked open again. He awkwardly met Crowley's gaze, then turned a far less desirable shade of red and looked away in embarrassment, his shoulders creeping up towards his ears and his hand leaving big, cold, lonely spots on Crowley's skin as they retreated.  
"I..." he mumbled, hands curling up at his middle. "Sorry..."  
Crowley laughed gently.   
"Sorry for what?" he asked. With his clean hand he gently guided Aziraphale's hands back to his hips one by one, before taking hold of his own erection with his right hand, still covered in Aziraphale's cooling load."Just hold on to me, yeah? Hold on tight." He stroked himself, lazily at first, then faster, leaning in and whispering in Aziraphale's ear; "Leave bruises, daddy."  
Aziraphale was surprisingly quick to accommodate that request, perhaps to make up for cutting one side of the fun short. No matter the reason he immediately pressed the pads of his fingers in, very mindfully not digging in his nails and held Crowley tightly against his lap, his fingers bearing down hard enough that Crowley was sure it would indeed leave bruises. He could hardly wait to see them.   
"That's it... Fuck yes, oh, gorgeous, you looked so pretty when you came for me like that," Crowley ground out. He tugged himself into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, breathing in his cologne and sweat and the whiff of sex in the air, parting his lips to suck a hickey into the skin. Fuck, he had done that with Aziraphale... Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fu -  
His orgasm felt almost cathartic as it shot through him, like something finally fell into place. Aziraphale looked bloody perfect like this, trousers undone, spent cock, lips kiss-swollen and red, hair ruffled and shirt rumpled. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and he looked about ready to collapse sideways onto the sofa and sleep until noon. Crowley had half a mind to join hi as he caught his breath, huffing and panting. Just snuggling up against Aziraphale's soft front and sleeping surrounded by the scent of his cologne...  
"You should go," Aziraphale voice suddenly cut through Crowley's trance-like admiration.   
"Wha'?"  
"You should be going. Look at the time, it's getting late. You need your beauty sleep." Aziraphale said mirthfully as he backed Crowley off his lap and pulled his pants and jeans back up for him. "And I'm getting up at half five..." he sighed, a lot less chipperly as he righted himself and put his clothes back in order.  
Crowley shook himself awake. It felt like some of the warmth had just drained out of the room.  
"Right... Yeah. Half five..." he muttered. "I should erh..." he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, towards the front door before fumbling his pants and jeans back up.  
Aziraphale nodded, biting his lip, not meeting Crowley's gaze.  
"Indeed. So..."  
A long stretch of silence followed. Crowley was unsure what to say. He had had plenty of one night stands in his time. Sometimes you hugged goodbye, exchanged promises of meeting up for coffee sometime that everyone involved knew were utter bollocks, and other times you waited for the other person to fall asleep so you could sneak out without a trace. And sometimes you threw the bastard out before he had a chance to put on both shoes.   
Crowley had honestly not expected this to end in option number three...  
He figured he would be best off getting with the program and fucking off, rather than hang about in the hope of being allowed just a couple more minutes in Aziraphale's arms, but he felt completely stunned. While he could appreciate after-cuddles after a good rumble, he had never actually felt _bereft_ if they were not offered for whatever reason, but it seemed that he was either getting old and soft or some sort of cosmic score was being evened out for all the times he had told people to piss off and never call him because right now he was ready to beg...  
But Aziraphale had no interest in that and neither did his own poor, worn-thin pride. So he did his belt up and cleared his throat.   
"Right then... Goodnight?" he said before swaggering off to put on his shoes without waiting for a reply.   
Aziraphale slowly trailed after him and opened the front door for him.  
"Yes..." he said slowly, eyes locked on Crowley's ankles. "Goodnight."  
Crowley wanted to say something more, but had no idea what exactly. So he just nodded and slipped outside. He had not even made it down the front steps before Aziraphale closed the door behind him. As he fire dup the Bentley, Freddie picked up where he had left off on 'Killer Queen'. Crowley put a sock in him and drove home in silence, trying to figure out which way was up.

Back in his front room, Aziraphale slumped into a dining chair and ran a hand over his face. What had he just done? An old and nearly forgotten feeling of a very specific kind of guilt slowly bubbled up in his chest. It used to smell like Lindy's cologne, that feeling, and of that lavender scented cleaning agent they had used at the seminary dorms too... Now it smelled like Crowley's apple shampoo.   
For several long minutes Aziraphale just sat, resting his lips against his hand with his elbow supported on the dining table, his eyes unseeingly locked on the Ragnarok left behind by the children. Then he shook his head and dragged himself upstairs and changed into his pajamas. Once the lights were off and he was tucked in under his duvet, he neatly folded his hands while panic bloomed in his chest. Bar Laudes and Mass, he had missed all of his prayers that day. And he certainly had a lot to pray for...  
"Omnibus Sanctis, et vobis, fratres; quia peccavi nimiscogitatione, verbo et opere; mea culpa, mea culpa... mea maxima culpa..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BET YOU DIDNT THINK THERED EVER ACTUALLY BE A SEX SCENE AT THIS POINT, EH??? 8D Also, this ch is chaotic af, like... just a lot going on, I feel like, but it all had to happen some time and I wanted to get to the filth, honestly, so I just crammed a bunch of stuff into one
> 
> If there are typos, misspellings or autocorected words, please tell them to step onto the fire and blow themselves to kingdom come lol I'm going to bed now, school tomorrow, internship at seven on Tuesday morning, life is hectic af rn, I cried the other day because I had to hang my newly cleaned knickers on the washing line and there were too bloody many, but I'mma keep on keeping on and keep on writing too! :D Enjoy this!


	26. Chapter 26

_Friday, 28th July_

_Ave Maria, gratia plena..._

_... mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...  
_

_Gloria Patri, et Filio et Spiritui Sancto...  
_

_... nunc, et in ora mortis nostra...  
_

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem...   
_

_... in principio, et nunc, et semper..._

Aziraphale felt like the World was passing him in a blur. He spent an inordinacy amount of time in the actual church too, while his mind was one, long, non-stop prayer, with an equally non-stop undercurrent of 'Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley_ ' while his duties seemed to sort of... float by and by some miracle get done, even when Deidre closed her laptop and declared, with a look of concern in her eyes that Aziraphale was far too distracted to notice, that that would be her for the next three weeks and that she would be off to Torquay with Adam and her husband for a fortnight. Aziraphale had managed the wherewithal to nod and wish them a nice trip while his hands twitched around his Rosaries in his lap.   
What on Earth had happened? He had set the boundaries so nicely, they had done so well, both of them, Crowley had behaved, had done absolutely nothing besides sitting there and not thinking Aziraphale was a predator and then... He had not wanted for that to happen. Had not meant to kiss Crowley like that, had _certainly_ not meant to allow the situation to escalate. Aziraphale time and time again considered if perhaps this could somehow be Crowley's fault, but given how far things had gone, blaming Crowley would inevitably lead to the necessity for some rather ugly words that Aziraphale could not bring himself to apply to the other man, no matter how much pressure he felt under.   
Perhaps this was what he had needed? A good old scare, as he went about his routines, consoling the bereaved, blessing and absolving those at death's door, giving his sermons on the word of the Lord like the _complete fraud that he was_..! And they all looked up at him and was there anyway they could _tell_?? Could know what he had done, how he had let them all down, had broken his vows, how he was lying to them in that very moment...

_Sunday, 30th July_

Crowley swung himself into the delivery van and took off towards the parish hall after loading the modest number of small floral decorations in a single crate in the back. He had avoided Aziraphale, unsure what to say to the man - or do about his strangely wounded pride after the awkward end to their... 'evening together'. His mind was tying itself in knots to figure out what to make of the whole thing. All he really knew was two things; He was hurt to have been tipped out like that and he was _desperate_ for it to happen again if it meant another fumble on Aziraphale's sofa.   
To distract himself from his indifference, even willingness, to be treated like chopped liver, he did a spot of plotting on ways to annoy people around him - that mainly being Anathema, seeing how Pizza Hut did not exactly seem robust enough to cope with being victimised like that - some online shopping and finally a self-invite to a cup of coffee at Marjie's place after one of her regulars had cancelled anyway. The lady had been ever so excited about the flowers he had brought her - once she had finished insincerely scolding him for spoiling her.  
"Being friends with a florist has its benefits, doll," Crowley had snickered while very aware of the fact that Sergeant Shitcreek had been glaring furiously from his front room window, as Crowley had elegantly slipped into the other end of the semi-detached.  
But as was true of all distractions, all of these things had come to an end, which had genuinely been a shame with regards to the afternoon with Marjie, who had flittered about making tea and, after a little while, something a little stronger, in way that would have reminded Crowley of Aziraphale, had he not _very_ firmly ordered himself not to go there and to flirt with Marjie instead. As soon as he had left a tipsy and giggling Marjie and had had yet another lipstick print placed on his face, however, there was nothing stopping the maelstrom in Crowley's mind to start spinning again.   
Alright, so Aziraphale had had a moments weakness. Shit happened, as far as Crowley was concerned. Less so as far as Aziraphale was concerned, he knew. Because Aziraphale was no hypocrite. Or well. Aziraphale _was_ damn hypocrite, that was what made him to bloody charming in the first place, a hypocrite and a liar and a damnably conscientious man...  
Although, right now it made him a very frustrating man to know, more than anything else. Because Aziraphale was not a hypocrite, he took his job and his calling to help people through their struggles as they tried to juggle life and faith and the shameful condition known as humanity, very seriously and all the while that stupid, _stubborn, gorgeous prat_ was just so bloody high and-mighty about it all..!   
Crowley stood on the brakes and tore the sliding door of the car open. Why was life so difficult?? He had had, what, ten different pretty, but self-absorbed, arrogant, brainless, jealous young things with no higher goal than to be papped with someone even remotely rich and/or famous in order to bring attention to themselves, on a leash at the time he had left London and life had been _easy_. This girl on Monday, that lad on Tuesday, do not cross the beams, oh, you got mad, sweetie, too bad, _next!_ And then he moved to countryside where shite-all went on and suddenly breathing was kind of difficult because Aziraphale was just behind those wooden double doors, performing a baptism...   
Crowley swaggered past a worn pram parked by the front steps and shouldered his way into the parish hall. Inside, the air smelled faintly of food. Small clusters of balloons had been taped to the walls here and there, while a handful of tables had been covered with off-white crushed velvet table cloths. The garish yellow chairs had clearly been deemed unsalvageable and had simply been left to be whatever it was they thought they were. Chairs, presumably, but who could tell what those monstrosities were thinking, really.  
Crowley plopped a small flower arrangement in the middle of each table, taking in the cutlery and flatware from the hall's kitchen and a mismatch of wineglasses. The proud parents had not exactly been oozing money as they had placed the order, consistently inquiring about the cheapest possible options. Crowley had gotten the sense that the baby had not been planned and that this whole debacle was, at least in part, to ward off nagging family members, but the way he had practically had an entire photo album documenting baby's first three months thrown at him by the glowing father had left little room to speculate about whether or not Mummy and Daddy were excited about the mite.  
Crowley anally prodded at a few flowers to make them look their best and stuck the crate under his arm to leave the parish hall, just as the lonely church bell started ringing. He had perhaps been cutting it a bit close with the delivery, one might say, but as his smarting pride had decided to cope with the, ah, situation like an adult, he had figured that perhaps he ought to have some sort of talk with Aziraphale. And when better to catch the man than when he could be cornered after work and was at the risk of tripping on his vestments or get snagged on a doorhandle if he tried to run?  
As Crowley stepped outside, the double doors opened across the yard and Aziraphale walked out, leading the way for the beaming mother with a baby in a baptism gown in her arms. Aziraphale grinned and cooed at the child while the rest of the family trickled out. Crowley recognised several people who had come in pick up flowers for that plumber bloke's send-off, including the loud, brutish widow. She was walking towards the back of the small group of people and looked to be in her usual, huffy mood, although she was keeping unusually quiet.   
Crowley slowly walked back to the van to drop off the crate, his eyes glued to Aziraphale's face as the blond smiled at the camera next to the happy parents while a bloke who looked to be an uncle of the child took a couple of photos. Then a woman, who could be none other than an over-excitement grandmother whisked the baby away from its parents and hurried across the yard towards the parish hall, past Crowley and his van, the rest of the family following her. Crowley smiled warmly and nodded before slipping around his van and sauntering towards Aziraphale and the parents of the child, who were still standing by the church doors.   
"... we'll get the wedding sorted out as soon as we can, honestly. Having a baby is just bloody expensive," Crowley heard the father say apologetically.  
"You're not cross, right, Father A?" the mother added.  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.   
"Really, Crystal, you know me better than that," he tutted. "All happy little accidents," he said, folding his hands in front of him. "We all make mistakes," he continued, clearing his throat. "Frankly, the haphazard circumstances are all the more reason for me to agree to do the baptism. That, and because babies always look so adorable in their little white frocks," he finished with a secret little grin.   
"We're honestly just so glad you agreed to this," the mother said warmly. "I can't imagine having anyone for the job. Only the best for little Ollie!"  
Aziraphale shuffled his feet and tittered nervously.  
"Oh. The best... I don't know about that..."  
"I do," the younger woman insisted. "You were better than ever today. Even better than at Uncle Ron's funeral."  
Aziraphale cast a quick glance up, paled slightly upon finding Crowley standing there, and waved a hand.   
"Oh, psh. I wouldn't know about that..." he said distractedly. "I'm just doing my job. But now, you should be going. Lunch'll be waiting for you, you must be starving, I'd imagine you've been up since early this morning." He almost pushed the young couple along while slowly backing towards the church as Crowley advanced.   
The mother lit up.   
"Oh, Mr Crowley!" She blocked Crowley's path as he was trying to stalk after Aziraphale. "Did you deliver the flowers then?"  
Crowley shot a long glance after Aziraphale who slipped back inside the church.  
"Yeah, yeah, I did. 'Xactly as you wanted them," he said distractedly.   
"We'll be coming back with more business," the father promised. "Proper big order." He ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "We'd saved up for a wedding but then... well, as you saw," he smirked and shrugged. "The price of nappies..." he chuckled.   
Crowley laughed half-heartedly.   
"Yeah, sure, they'll bleed you dry... those... kiddos..."  
"But Father A's already promised to do the wedding once we're back on our feet financially, so we'll get back to you then," the mother promised. "Hopefully aunt Brenda will shut up then..." she muttered.  
"She'll be dead before that happens, Crissy..." the father replied tiredly. "And speaking of which, I'm afraid we have to go and face the music now."  
They looked like they wanted to say their polite goodbyes to Crowley, but he quickly pushed past them.  
"Good luck with that, bye now kids, maybe use a johnny next time to keep auntie quiet..." he said distantly, slamming frontally into the church doors, quickly pushing them closed behind him.   
Aziraphale looked up, startled, with a couple of hymn books in his hands that had apparently been abandoned in the pews.   
"What do you want?" he asked shrilly. "Come to gloat?"  
Gloat? Had Crowley come to gloat that Aziraphale had snogged him, turned him down, had snogged him again, had lured Crowley into a round of heavy petting on the sofa and had then kicked Crowley out in the most maddening way?  
"I just came to to congratulate the happy young couple... on their bastard child," he said smoothly while Aziraphale stomped down to the small bookshelf by the back pew.  
"They just had a small accident..." Aziraphale said dismissively. "and since they're young and a child is dear on the upkeep, they just couldn't fit a wedding into the budget at this stage. Nothing inherently horrid about it. Has a ring on and all, Crystal does, they'll get around to it. Brandon's a very nice young man, she's done very well for herself there..."  
"Life just happens sometimes," Crowley conceded, eyes unblinking behind his glasses. _C'mon, Angel, you're so close to getting it._ "To err is human..?" he offered.   
"I'm not human!" Aziraphale snapped, spinning on his heel to face Crowley. Good. He had caught on. Well, sort of. "I'm a priest! People _expect_ things from me! That I uphold certain _standards_! A young couple who accidentally find themselves expecting is not at all the same as what you - we - I -! It's not the same!" he finished furiously, slamming the hymn books back onto their shelf.   
Crowley noted that he was not being blamed for 'misunderstanding' anything this time, but also noted that this made for a much more distraught Aziraphale.   
"I'm sure it'll all be fi-" he started but was rudely cut off.  
"It will _not_ be fine!" Aziraphale hissed. "That was a very bad thing that we did!"  
Crowley wanted to point out that no one was about to get pregnant from what they had done and that the scandal was thusly a lot less public, but funny remarks seemed ill-advised as Aziraphale fussed about the church.  
"No one knows about it," he simply said. "What they don't know can't hurt -"  
"The Lord sees all!" Aziraphale interrupted him again. He sounded on the verge of tears. "He knows!" He shot Crowley a dirty look. "I wish you'd go away..."   
Arguing with a grown, and in many, many ways perfectly sane, even reasonable man whether his imaginary friend would be angry that he got a hand job was... a good 30 percent of what Crowley did not miss about religion. He was, however, not going to 'go away'.  
"God doesn't tell," he argued. "If he does, he needs to seriously reevaluate his priorities, 'cos man. This isn't the worst thing I've heard of a priest doing."   
The resignation that briefly flashed through Aziraphale's eyes told Crowley that they did in fact agree on this, but then panic and self-defensive anger took over again in those cutely ordinary, dull blue eyes.   
"It nonetheless goes against his Word," Aziraphale said firmly. "It was wrong. Especially of me."  
Crowley did not believe for even a fraction of a second that Aziraphale considered what they had done to be wrong for any other man in the whole entire Universe. Because Aziraphale was a hypocrite, but not _that_ kind of hypocrite.   
"Everyone breaks the rules sometimes, you know that," Crowley said. "You're constantly trying to look at everybody's cards when we're playing poker," he tried.  
Turned out the time for a joke had _still_ not arrived. Aziraphale made a shrill, hysterical noise.   
"Are you actually trying to compare those two??" he sputtered. "I realise you don't take my faith seriously but this is extraordinary even for -"  
"Alright," Crowley said loudly. "Then how about supporting abortions, hm? Or supposed witchcraft, or fraud or harlotry? Or putting little snippy notes in the confessional that people need to hurry the fuck up because you have better shit to do with your time and sit there and listen to their yada-yada all afternoon? Or traipsing around dressed like a teddybear instead of wearing your clericals?"   
"First of all," Aziraphale said primly. "I'd appreciate if you don't swear in my church. _Secondly_ ," he continued loudly as Crowley was about to tell him where to shove it. "those are still not - it's not the same. I've taken a _vow_ , Crowley. I've made a promise. To obey the church and its demands of me. A promise that people expect me to be going by."   
"They also expect you to discourage abor-"  
"Those are the misdemeanors of others which I forgive when they come to me and ask for forgiveness because it is _my job_ ," Aziraphale said heatedly, fumbling under his vestment. After a moment, his hand reappeared, holding a remote. "No one is free from sin, but I cannot go around disobeying major points of scripture like this..." he finished with a tired shrug, as if to say 'what can I do? That's just what it is'. He almost looked disappointed. Or maybe that was just Crowley projecting. Crowley decided to go and find out by pressing on - if nothing else, then to make Aziraphale look less haunted and guilty.  
"You've barely disobeyed!" he countered with a wide shrug, as he trailed after Aziraphale who was making his way towards the altar, zapping out candles as he went. "'Thou shall not lie with a man' is what it says. Very little 'lying' happened back then. Absolutely no lying. Quite a bit of sitting, but I think I'd've heard of it from some braying sheep or other if there'd been anything against sitting."   
Once again, the time was proven unripe for a joke. Aziraphale spun around and puffed up, repeatedly and with growing intensity hitting the small button on the remote while the last candle stubbornly remained lit.  
"You're splitting hairs!" he said vexedly.   
"Isn't that what you lot have been doing for 2000 years?" Crowley asked surly. He did not mean to bicker, but Aziraphale was just asking for it at this point.  
"Funnily enough, 'my lot' are the ones who make the rules that I'm supposed to be following!" Aziraphale shot back, snootily. "We don't split hairs, we decide where they run!" He cringed, clearly hearing himself and not liking it. He gave up on zapping out the candle for a moment. "I... I'm a priest, Crowley," he said quietly. "We make the rules, we abide by them. We have to set an example"  
"Some example those folks are setting," Crowley snorted.  
"We ought to, at least..." Aziraphale said tiredly. "If we all just give up and run amok, the entire Church will go to wreck and ruin."   
Crowley wanted to point out that from where he was stood, it already had. But there was something convinced in Aziraphale's voice, something hopeful, like he actually believed that there was something salvageable that Crowley had a hard time snuffing out. It would feel like stepping on a baby bird or something equally ugly but precious.  
"This sort of behaviour is letting everyone down..." Aziraphale continued unhappily, finally managing to put out the last candle.   
"You're not letting anybody down," Crowley said "That couple of little sinners and their illegitimate baby out there thought you were great today. Your best yet, so I've heard."  
Aziraphale tutted and squirmed. Crowley knew he wanted to bask in the praise but was loathe to abandon his self-righteous, zealous moping.   
"People expect to get what it says on the tin -" he argued.   
"It says dodgy, middle-aged twat who generally does whatever the Hell he wants but gives cute Sunday sermons," Crowley cut in. "Angel," he said intently. "you're good at your job. What happened hasn't made you worse at it." Funnily enough, Aziraphale seemed to be at his worst when the actual Church was involved, such as when the bishop came to visit, but that was a jab to make another time, Crowley decided.   
"This just feels like it's a step too far..." Aziraphale muttered, trudging off, around the altarpiece and through a heavy wooden door. "If they all found out..." He turned and looked up at Crowley who had sauntered after him, his cute, chubby fingers tying themselves in knots around the remote. "who knows how they'd react?"   
Crowley felt himself deflate a little. Oh, poor Angel, that old song again.  
"They won't find out," he said simply.   
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Do forgive me for not quite trusting you to be the consummate gentleman," he snipped, but there was something automatic in the answer, like he was merely using it as a defensive attack to shelter his worries from common sense more than anything else.   
Crowley raised his brows.  
"Oi. I got my own reasons to keep stum," he shot back.  
"Which are?"   
"My own, for a start," Crowley said airily, letting his gaze roam the room. There was a counter with a small sink and a mirror above it, next to the door. One of the cupboards had a pretty hefty lock on it. Crowley figured the church silver was kept there. Opposite the door was a large wardrobe and a chair, over the back of which Aziraphale's bowtie and waistcoat were draped.   
Aziraphale quirked a brow.  
"Would've thought your inner teenage rebel would have been ready to shout it from the rooftops..." he said quietly.   
"Which?" Crowley challenged.  
Aziraphale turned luminescent red.  
"That you'd... we..." he muttered, gesturing vaguely.   
"Like I said," Crowley intoned causally, pushing down his hurt and reminding himself that he had known damn well that he was getting involved with a very frightened, very closeted priest when he climbed onto Aziraphale's lap. "I've my reasons to keep quiet about it too."  
Aziraphale had opened the wardrobe, revealing a hanger bar from which an extra alb as well as chasubles of every colour hung, but now he froze.   
"You're not still married, are you??" he asked, horrified, spinning to look at Crowley.  
Crowley snorted with laughter.  
"No, goodness, no, that's long since over and done," he said. "I told you."   
Aziraphale hummed and nodded.  
"Just... you can't tell anyone about this," he said imploringly.  
Crowley shook his head.  
"Believe me, I know."  
"Never," Aziraphale insisted. "I could lose my job and my home and..."  
"I won't tell anyone," Crowley said firmly. Ruining Aziraphale's life was the furthest thing from his mind. "For your reasons and my own, I won't be telling."  
Aziraphale looked like he was trying his best to be reassured but was not quite there.  
"Promise?"  
Crowley tutted softly.  
"Angel..." he cooed, stepping closer to Aziraphale. "You trusted me so nicely last week..."   
He had not meant for it come out that... sexy. Or at all, frankly. The moment the words had left his lips, he expected Aziraphale to flare up, but the opposite happened; Aziraphale melted a little.   
"Crowley..." It was pained, whiny little breath of a word, like Crowley was being horribly unfair and like Aziraphale did not want him to stop. "Don't..."  
Crowley was too helplessly hooked on the way Aziraphale's forehead scrunched up, like a puppy begging for food, to help himself.   
"Don't what?" he murmured into the space between them. The air felt almost electric all of a sudden. Aziraphale seemed to be feeling it too.  
"Crowley, we can't - " he said quietly, turning away and closing his eyes. His lips moved faintly and without a sound as he pulled his chasuble over his head.   
Crowley leaned in and grabbed an empty coat hanger from the wardrobe. As Aziraphale's ruffled head reemerged from the garment, he offered it up. He earned himself a wide-eyed look that would have looked terrified if Aziraphale's pupils had not been blown as wide as oceans while he clumsily took the hanger and hung his chasuble.   
"Can't what?" Crowley asked sneakily, neatly plucking the hanger and chasuble from Aziraphale and hanging it in the wardrobe. What should he not be doing? He was not doing anything! He was just grabbing a coat hanger! Just because he was standing a bit closely while doing so, but really, he had to be able to reach, right? And Aziraphale was perfectly welcome to step away rather than remain standing so close his shoulder was nearly brushing Crowley's chest.  
"It's a sin," Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and pulling his stole off, his lips silently moving before the garment was folded and placed in a drawer.   
"Sins can be forgiven," Crowley said smoothly. "Coupl'a Hail Mary's and you'll be right as rain."  
Aziraphale shot him a deadpan look.  
"You really expect me to _confess_ to this?"   
Crowley quirked a brow. He was not the least bit surprised that Aziraphale would not be bringing this up to anyone, not even in confession, but he was curious to hear his Angel's thought process.   
"You won't be?" he asked innocently.  
Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air, facing the wardrobe.  
"The Lord sees all," he said, while untying his cincture. "He knows what I've done. If I can pray for forgiveness on behalf of other's why not cut out the middleman and simply pray for myself too? Absolutely no need to be involving... anyone else," he finished tightly.  
 _That's my Angel, through and through.  
_ "Bit of DIY," Crowley purred, very carefully taking the silk rope from Aziraphale's hands and rolling it up neatly, his eyes locked on round, blue ones. He could think of much better uses for it than putting shape into the white potato sack that was an alb, but that was a thought for another time. "So what's the problem? You sin..." He very deliberately leaned against Aziraphale in order to tuck the roll of rope in with it's differently coloured pals in the drawer. "you pray..." He got between Aziraphale and the wardrobe and nudged the drawer closed with his leg, his front pressed against Aziraphale's. "you're forgiven..."  
Aziraphale looked like he had been backed into a corner of his own logic, but was loathe to argue with a man as clever as himself.   
"We should strive to do better..." he choked out.  
"To err is human," Crowley repeated softly.   
"I'm a priest..." Aziraphale said, his voice only a loud whisper.   
"You can say sorry later..." Crowley mumbled huskily. "Only God knows and he doesn't tell..."  
The feeling of Aziraphale melting against him was everything, simply everything. Or well. It was about half of everything. The other half was when Aziraphale stepped in even closer, pressing himself fully against Crowley, very obviously... pleased with their little religious debate.   
"Crowley..."   
"Yes..."  
"This is consecrated ground..."  
"Your point being..?"

Aziraphale had prayed and prayed. Prayed for forgiveness, for clarity of mind, for the strength he would inevitably need in order to let that... _feeling_ slip away. Again. It used to smell like Lindy's cologne. Now it smelled like Crowley's apple shampoo, this feeling. This feeling that he had thought he was about to lose once more, but then it had suddenly been right there, in church, smelling of apples and being too bloody persistent and full of clever counter-arguments for Aziraphale to ignore... He let his fingers twine themselves in Crowley's hair and let his mouth fall open to a kiss that he should not be wanting, should be speaking out against as he stood there, in the vestry, still dressed in his alb, his sign of purity before the Lord... The Lord who saw all and told no one...  
Crowley broke the kiss with a hum.  
"I promised you something, didn't I..?" he asked against Aziraphale's lips.   
"W-what?"  
"Just never got the chance to make good on my word..." Crowley continued, tutting. "For shame, Angel, made a liar of me, you did..."  
Aziraphale's brain struggled to keep up while Crowley kissed his way along his jaw. Then deft fingers flittered along Aziraphale's waist, bunching up the fabric of his alb.  
"Arms up, Angel. You're over-dressed..." Crowley muttered.  
Aziraphale's heart sped up until it was hammering so loudly Crowley was surely able to hear it. He knew exactly what would be coming once the alb was off, he should be saying no, he should be telling Crowley off... He should be praying as he raised his arms and let the fabric be pulled over his head, but it was hard to form coherent sentences, even in the privacy of his head as his brain spun and spun around the vague concept of what would happen next, unable - or perhaps too shy - to put a word to it. Then the alb was gone and Crowley's face came back into view, his lips even redder than usual and slightly parted. Aziraphale had just enough time to wonder why in the World that gorgeous, redheaded man would be _there_ , doing _that_ sort of thing, with _him_ , when Crowley slipped onto his knees and knocked off his dark glasses before his hands began pawing at the front of Aziraphale's trousers.   
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut while he felt the layers of his clothes being parted and grabbed onto the wardrobe for balance.  
_Benedici mihi, Pater, quia peccavi...  
_ He dared peek down his form, only to be met by vision of Crowley making an absolutely filthy show of... showering a certain part of his anatomy in kitten licks, yellow devil eyes bearing into Aziraphale's, leaving Aziraphale squirming as he simultaneously thrived on the way Crowley's hands were groping his thighs and tried to dissociate from his own body and the entire situation out of pure schoolboy-esque panic.  
 _Sorry, Lord,_ he thought as his eyes fluttered shut to the sound of Crowley slurping and moaning obscenely as his mouth closed around... yes, well. That. _I must strive to do better -  
_ Well, not right now. Later. Tonight. Tomorrow. Right now was a lost cause.

Aziraphale smelled like... well, like a grown man who was not freshly showered. Perhaps it should have been off-putting, perhaps Crowley was just a super messed-up bloke who fetishised weird things, but whatever the reason, he did not mind in the least. He happily swallowed down the thick length of Aziraphale's erection and nuzzled against his pubes breathing in the smell of soap and sweat topped off by a faint whiff of the bergamot of Aziraphale's cologne. It was nice. It was messy and real, no planning ahead, no showering first, no... 'pretty'. Just Crowley on his knees and Aziraphale's hands buried in his hair and the tip of Aziraphale's cock nudging the back of Crowley's throat, because they had felt like it, right then. As if that sort of thing was something they were allowed to just decide to just 'feel like'.   
"Crow... Crowley," Aziraphale stuttered, his fingers tightening in Crowley's hair and actually pulling his head closer. How was that man so fucking brilliant?? All fluttering lashes and flushing cheeks, protesting like some silent film heroine one minute and practically fucking Crowley's mouth the next. Crowley hummed happily, feeling drool slip down his chin. He reached up and squeezed Aziraphale's amazing backside.  
"Crowley - Seriously -!" Aziraphale stammered again. "I'll end up -"  
 _Yeah. Yeah, seriously, do it, Angel.   
_Crowley nodded the best he could while barely able to breathe and dug his fingers into the arse of Aziraphale's trousers and the flesh beneath.  
Alright, okay, yeah, he definitely _was_ just a messed-up bloke who fetishised weird shit. At some point during his time at St Jude's pain had sort of... lost its scare-factor, if you liked. Had gone from a punishment to a reward, for speaking his mind, for standing up to people who did wrong, or for trying to stand up to them at least, for not taking shit lying down. The connotation had changed to the point where it had stuck even as Crowley had turned eighteen and been booted out of the institution and so, out in the freedom of the World at large, pain and sex had just seamlessly joined up in Crowley's head. Had come in mighty handy as a rent boyon more than one occasion. And now it was coming in handy as Aziraphale gave a weak noise of protest while his hips kept twitching forward and his fist in Crowley's hair tightened to the point where most people would probably have asked him to tone it down a nudge. All the sting was doing to Crowley, however, was make it physically impossible to not shift a little where he kneeled in order to enjoy the friction of his jeans against his hard cock.   
" _Crowley..! Hh..!_ "  
Not choking on Aziraphale's cum while Crowley himself was blowing his load in his jeans was tricky, but just about manageable. What was less manageable, as Crowley sat back on his haunches and wiped drool off his chin, was coping mentally with the fact that he had blown a priest. In - well, _almost_ in church. Crowley had just gone down on a priest. _A priest_. The weirdest and most amazing priest in the whole entire World...  
Aziraphale tried to do his trousers back up with trembling hands while trying to decide if he dared look at Crowley or not, panting slightly. He was unsure what the Devil he was meant to be feeling in that moment.   
Regret was what he found as he ransacked his mind to try and figure him self out. Not, he guilty realised next, because he had just done something _very_ bad indeed, but because... he and Crowley had... fooled around, he supposed the term was, and then Crowley had just... vanished only to turn up again when he wanted... _more_. Before this... they had been friends, had they not? Or friendly, at least. Even Crowley had been on the best behaviour one could expect of him after that accidental, drunken kiss, but now, this... It felt cheap. Like their socialising had been replaced entirely with... with what exactly? With... plain carnal nonsense that felt nice in the moment and then ruined everything later. Twisted everything around, made it ugly. Things always got ugly when Aziraphale forgot himself and lost control, they always turned sour... The dream of Crowley's attention had been much sweeter and much less troubling than actually receiving it...  
"You alright?" Crowley's voice came from down below.   
Aziraphale automatically looked down. Big, yellow eyes peered up at him, questioning. Curious. Interested.  
"I'm..." Aziraphale tried, his head feeling like it was full of cotton wool. He shook his head irritatedly and tried again. "I'm fine. That - that was..." He trailed off unsure what he even meant to say. He felt like he should say something but he could not come up with any words to put to it.   
Crowley got back on his feet, brushing off his knees before plucking up his glasses where they had landed on the floor by the open wardrobe door.  
"Pfft, yeah, Christ, the mess I've made," he said with his best casual chuckle. He had been gagging for this, had he not? For being thrown out again, because it meant there had been something after which he could be thrown out, but now that the moment was potentially drawing near, he was desperate to postpone it.   
"Mess?" Aziraphale said puzzledly.  
Crowley shrugged, briefly peering down at his groin. There was no visible wet stain but after a moment, Aziraphale became visibly flustered.   
"Oh. Goodness..." he mumbled, his hands dancing about for a bit, seemingly unsure what to do with themselves. "I-I see..."   
So Crowley had clearly... enjoyed himself doing this. That was... good. No. No, of course it was not. It was bad. All of this was very bad. _Very_ wicked indeed! Whether or not Crowley had derived any pleasure from it was irrelevant. Or perhaps not quite _irrelevant_ , it seemed impolite to be completely indifferent, in such circumstances, but... Aziraphale should not be concerning himself with Crowley's enjoyment since this entire thing was not meant to be happening! Both because Aziraphale was a priest and... because this was all... just wrong. Aziraphale did not want things to be like this... He wanted their easy chatting and poker nights and their socially seeing each other back! Even if Crowley had so sneakily made these happenings sort-of-alright, it did not change the fact that they were still ruining things... their real things that they had been doing... Or perhaps this really had just been what Crowley had wanted all along? And now that he had seen an opening, he was merely living out some sort of fantasy of his. Some petty revenge on the clergy at large, to Hell with Aziraphale. That would explain why he had gone off the radar since last Sunday only to turn up full of honeyed words of reassurance, just to talk Aziraphale into another round of -  
"So..." Crowley said, startling Aziraphale into looking back into those yellow eyes that were so much more genuine than they had any business being after luring Aziraphale into debauchery and wrecking his new friendship and - "Lunch?"  
Aziraphale's train of thought lopped onto its side like a kid on a bicycle and just stayed there, one wheel still spinning like mad, but nothing further happening.   
"L-lunch?" he stammered. "You want... lunch? Now?"  
"It's well past twelve," Crowley shrugged casually. "Figured you'd be famished."  
Aziraphale was in fact hungry, but that was hardly the point. What the dickens was Crowley plotting at?? Some kind of... softening of the blow? Yes. That would be it. Placating Aziraphale with food in order to ensure round three at some point -!  
"You don't have to entertain me," Aziraphale cooly. "You can go, if you like."  
Crowley stuck his bottom lip out and shrugged.  
"M'not. S'just the sorta thing people do with their mates on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I figured," he said. "I've been at work and haven't eaten yet, you've had a long day of high quality... priesting. We deserve chips."  
Aziraphale considered it. Did he want to be mollified with lunch and let Crowley get away with his wicked plan? If there was such a plan. Why had Aziraphale all of a sudden become so suspicious? Why was he suddenly having such a hard time giving Crowley the benefit of the doubt when all the old menace had done was - well. Be his usual menacing self, simply making an offer that Aziraphale had then been too weak to refuse. And why had Aziraphale not resisted if he had so little trust for the man. Was Aziraphale really so morally weak that he was willing to throw himself at a man for... gratification when he did not believe to have his, if not best, then at least average sort of interest at heart? What kind of carnally driven animal with no backbone was he that he would allow himself to be lured to let his guard down with a man he apparently did not trust enough to be comfortable with letting his guard down around??  
Not that this was the first time he had trusted Crowley... with some rather intimate pieces of his soul too... And his books... And in return Crowley had trusted Aziraphale to buy him lunch and had ended up half dead with dehydration... Whoops.   
For the sake of personal integrity, Aziraphale decided that maybe Crowley had proved himself trustworthy enough.  
"Fine. Let's have a lunch. On the one condition that you _swear_ you'll never tell anyone about this," Aziraphale said sternly, pointing a stiff finger at Crowley who lackadaisically held up his hands in surrender.   
"I'll promise as many times as you like, Angel," he said calmly.   
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"Don't call me that," he said vexedly.  
Crowley snickered.  
"Listen... How about we meet at the pub in 20 minutes? I uh... need a change of underpinningsss..."  
Aziraphale blinked. Oh. That.  
"Right, yes. Alright. You, uh... you do that. You'll be having your usual, I take it?" he said, chewing on his cheek and feeling a blush creep in. Going on the assumption that Crowley was in fact _not_ simply tricking him, that was... well. It rather _was_ , wasn't it? "I'll go ahead and order, it'll be ready by the time you get there."  
Crowley cocked his head, pursing his lips ever so slightly.   
"Sure. Yeah, uhuh, that's a plan, then," he said. He took a few swaggering steps towards the door, then stopped as Aziraphale called out to him;  
"Crowley..."   
The redhead elegantly spun on the spot.   
"Angel?"  
"We're having lunch... it's purely social," Aziraphale said dignifiedly. "This..." He gestured around the room. "this sort of thing can't happen again, you do understand that, right?"  
Crowley bobbed his head.  
"I, ye, buh, obviously. Striving to do better 'n all."  
Aziraphale waited for a beat for some small dig to keep an opening, but nothing came.  
"You do?" he asked surprisedly.   
Crowley nodded, more solemnly this time.   
"Sure..." He crammed his hands into his pockets. "So, uh..." He nodded his head backwards towards the church room. "I'mma scram."  
"And I'll go order lunch," Aziraphale said, nodding.  
Crowley looked like what he said next forced its way out of his mouth.  
"Thought you were gonna pray?"  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.   
"Not much use praying if my stomach's rumbling louder than my prayers..." he said dryly.  
The look of delighted humour that dawned on Crowley's face was... quite something.   
"Fair enough, Angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super jumbled, I feel, but I guess there's a lot of jumbled thinking going on, so I'm unsure what I could do about it. Sorry for any of the usual mistakes yada-yada. Hope this lightens the mood slightly for anyone who had a difficult time with how the last ch ended. 
> 
> Also, I had deadass meant to finish this Friday evening, but I swear, the last ~25 lines kept running in circles around me and I still don't LOVE-love them, but fuck it, this needs to go out.  
> Oh, and I give to you: Crystal, our Tracy's eldest :P That's honestly not important, but every time I can drag someone actually seen/mentioned on the show into this as a minor chara it sparks joy


	27. Chapter 27

_Thursday, 17th August_

Aziraphale had sent himself out on an incense run after a bit of an accident the day before. As he had risen from his chair, Deidre had asked, with a blank, open facial expression worthy of her son, if Aziraphale was going to pray. While Aziraphale had certainly taken the opportunity to get quite a bit of penance done - which had included staying off the biscuits - after the, erh... incident with Crowley in the vestry, while Deidre was still on her holidays, he had decided that enough had to be enough and had, a bit miffedly, announced that he was in fact not. Instead he was now, at a brisk pace, walking down the main street towards Anathema's shop. And to perhaps shoot a glance or two through the front window of the flower shop just next door. Since he was there anyway. Maybe even a friendly wave in case Crowley was in. Just as a show of no ill will. Perhaps Crowley would come slinking out and they could chat for a bit - just for a bit. Aziraphale had to get back to work, of course. But a few friendly words... to keep things sort of... normal between them. After having a strangely tense lunch together that Sunday, they seemed to have silently agreed to keep the one-on-one company to a minimum, seeing each other only when Crowley did his deliveries or on poker night. Which was great, of course. Perfect, even. Aziraphale had come to the conclusion that he could clearly not be trusted around the redhead and if Crowley let him have it easy by staying away rather than come sneaking in, leaving Aziraphale to fight for his own virtue, well. What better?  
It was absolutely fine that Crowley had apparently had his itch scratched and was now showing the kindness of no longer being urgently interested. It left their friendship room to not be muddled with... complications. What could possibly be better than no longer being on the receiving end of Crowley's dangerous flattery and sly smiles?? He, Aziraphale, had to _behave_ so it was just as well that Crowley did so too...  
Aziraphale forced himself to not sulk openly as he strolled down the pavement. In twenty yards he would be just outside the flower shop. Would Crowley notice or would he be in the back, busy with work?  
As it turned out, Crowley was not, in fact, busy with work out back. Nor in the front of the shop. The shop sat empty and dark and the self-serve box fully stocked. Aziraphale frowned up and down at the place, continuously looking back as he trudged up Anathema's front steps.  
"Hi there, Father A!"  
Anathema was behind the counter, pouring over a number of sheets that were spread out, with a pencil behind her ear and a rule run her hand. Next to her lay an open book. Aziraphale plucked up the book and peered at the front of the cover.  
"'The writing in the Stars: Reading of horoscopes'," he read out loud. "Whose future are you snooping into this time, then?" he asked curiously.  
"The Greater Tadfield Area," Anathema said. "I've taken up a new gig with the advertiser. I'll be doing their weekly horoscopes from now on."  
Aziraphale hummed, thumbing through the pages. There were a frightful number of diagrams exemplifying different... options and combinations, he supposed one could call them.  
"That's fun. Can't have a proper rag without a horoscope on the back," he said. "I have been wondering why they didn't ask sooner. Seems obvious. They did lack a bit of... mysterious charm like that."  
"If you ever feel like someone else should be sending paid work my way, don't hesitate to push for it," Anathema said, tapping her pencil against her lip.  
"Yes, well... I suppose, technically, I can't really be seen encouraging this sort of heresy," Aziraphale said, pursing his lips and peeking past Anathema's long hair, onto the diagram in front of her. When Anathema peered up at him with a terse quirk of a brow, he simply smiled at her.  
Anathema held his gaze for a moment then sighed and gave a snort of laughter.  
"Did you want something?"  
"Just the usual, please," Aziraphale said, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet, his hands clasped in front of him.  
"That was quick?" Anathema noted, snatching a couple of small packages of little coloured cones from the little cake stand on the counter. "What do you do with it, eat it?"  
Aziraphale shuffled his feet.  
"I dropped the tin in the... chalice..." he mumbled.  
"You dropped the incense in the holy wine?" Anathema reiterated.  
"It was an accident!"  
"That's a... very priestly sort of accident to have."  
Aziraphale pouted a bit while the younger woman struggled to scan a crumbled bar code.  
"Have you spoken to Crowley today?" Anathema asked through a bit of a snarl as she gave up trying to straighten one bar code and moved on to the next one instead with similar results.  
Aziraphale frowned. Why did people always assume he had been in touch with Crowley more recently than anyone else??  
"I have not... I'd've thought you'd be the first person to see him every day," he shot back. "I was under the impression that neighbour-feuding with you was one of his hobbies these days?" He shot a quick glance in the general direction of the flower shop. "But perhaps you haven't seen him today?" He sure did hope it was not another round of the squibs that was keeping Crowley away from work...  
Anathema hummed and gave up on the scanner and instead squinted in order to read the tiny letters on the bar code, carefully punching them into the check-out register instead.  
"Oh, I've seen him," she said distractedly. "He was here, like... half an hour ago... Left with a face like a thunder cloud..."  
Aziraphale quirked a brow.  
"What did you do?" he asked.   
Anathema puffed up.  
"I didn't do nothing!" she sputtered. "It was that useless Pulsifer dude!"  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"What did he do then?"  
Anathema rolled her eyes.  
"Slaughtered someone else's computer, in cold blood," she scoffed. "Dissatisfied client showed up at the shop. Had a go at shouting at Crowley first, for some reason. Crowley sent him packing, as you can imagine."  
Aziraphale could indeed imagine Crowley if someone showed up, blaming him for the incompetence of others and frankly, it was a worrying thought.  
"And the stiff..?" he asked carefully.  
Anathema snorted.  
"The customer or the baby witch hunter?" she asked. "The customer was thrown out on his arse and Crowley then explained to young Newton Pulsifer the dire consequences of dragging the sorry fruits of his computer-related labour into Crowley's shop. Threatened to let the next customer actually have at him. I could almost feel sorry for him." She finished tapping on the register. "Almost," she repeated emphatically.  
"And then Crowley went home?" Aziraphale asked.  
"Muttered something about booze and fucked off," Anathema shrugged, accepting a few banknotes from Aziraphale and printing a receipt for him. "It was bound to happen at some stage. I dunno what his damage is, but he's been like that all week..."  
Aziraphale pursed his lips in thought. It had been more than one week since... That thing, that they had done... It had to be something else, right? What on Earth could be bugging Crowley so much? Granted, he was generally a bit of a grump, but surely one annoying customer could not push him over the edge just like that? He had even shouted at poor Newton afterwards, that should have cheered him up!  
"No idea what it could be?" Anathema asked.  
Aziraphale stopped wondering about Crowley's state of mind in favour of leveling an irritated look at the American.  
"Why would I know?" he asked evasively. "How about Marjie? Ask her, she talks to him too."  
"Marjie's busy. With work," Anathema deadpanned.  
Aziraphale rather took offence to that remark.  
"Yes, well. So am I!" he said, privately abandoning the idea of maybe popping out of the office for a bit to see how Crowley was doing. Just as well, really. Showing up during work hours, as if he had heard of Crowley's sullen mood and had rushed to his side was a bit... well. Rather, no? "If you're so concerned, why don't you pop 'round and see how he's doing?"  
Anathema gestured sweepingly at the many papers on the counter.  
"I have another nine of these left to do!" she said. "It's not a two minute thing! Gotta get it right."  
Aziraphale had absolutely no comments to that. He put on his standard polite smile and said nothing. Anathema clearly noticed.  
"Shouldn't you be getting back to your office?" she asked surly.  
"Quite," Aziraphale agreed. He snuck one last peek at this weeks predictions for Virgo, which were listed in a hasty scribble along the margins of the horoscope. "You feel pressed for time these days," he read. "Try not to hold onto your worries. You feel a need to clean things out, but beware the clutter this may cause."  
"If you're about to give an opinion, I don't wanna hear it," Anathema said hectically. "Now shoo! Let me get back to work!"  
Aziraphale scooped up his small parcels and hurried out while Anathema scratched her head with the butt of her pencil, her mouth hanging slightly open and angled a ruler across her paper. As Anathema's door jingled shut behind him, Aziraphale looked up at the logo of 'Tadfield Flowers'. It was an oddly bland name for Crowley, he thought. He had daringly wandered back into he murky depths of the internet, this time properly managing the spelling of everything, finally finding some actual info on Crowley's former enterprise, 'Serpent'. It had looked... very Crowley, from what Aziraphale could tell from the pictures. Very much like Crowley's kitchen counter, really. Black and marble-shiny and sleek. There had been a few articles written too, some of them accompanied by photos of Crowley swaggering along with a coffee cup or his mobile in his hand, other with the ginger, grinning menacingly, dressed up for various sorts of parties, squeezed in next to someone else who, judging by the way their name would be mentioned in the image description, was someone you were in fact meant to recognize. Not that Aziraphale had, but it could hardly be that important... If Crowley was acquainted with anyone who might be of interest to Aziraphale, the redhead would eventually tell the story, Aziraphale figured. True, it would seem there were quite a few stories to tell, but they would get to it at some point, surely. Once they were done... seemingly agreeing that a little bit of distance was appropriate...

Crowley got tired of feeding his compost grinder and grabbed his bottle of wine, sauntering back to his sunbed and flopping down miserably on top of his silk robe which was spread out on the cushions, before helping himself to a large swig. He had tried everything, including an impromptu bit of shouting at that useless Numpty lad, which may have gotten slightly more shouty than strictly necessary, but he had just been so bloody done in that moment. He had tried online shopping, which had yielded nothing desirable for him to throw his money at, had overzealously dyed his roots despite not needing it yet, he had washed and waxed the Bentley, strutted about the house in his silk robe, had strutted around the house naked, had watched 'Golden Girls' while naked, had watched videos online of people falling and hurting themselves in attempts at showing off - while naked. Him, not the people in the videos - and had given his entire collection of plants - indoors and out - a once-over, dealing with any miscreants who had failed to meet his standards. He was now sprawled out on his sunbed, wine-drunk on absolute plonk at four in the afternoon, in his mini shorts, miserable as ever.  
Why did he have to come across that stupid box of old shit this week of all weeks out of the year?! Oh, how ridiculously cruel the Universe could be, when it wanted to...  
Crowley helped himself to another mouthful of wine, which was not easy when positioned on your stomach, on a sunbed, with your head hanging slightly over the edge. As he was halfway through his undignified sip when a shadow fell over him.  
"Good afternoon, dear boy."  
Crowley groaned. Socialising was the only thing he had not yet tried, due to absolutely not feeling like it. He had even considered cancelling on poker night. Considered, mind. Aziraphale might take it the wrong way if he actually went through with that idea, so he knew in his heart of hearts that he would have shown up anyway, just for Aziraphale's sake, since their weirdly sweetly awkward truce was too precious to be broken. If Crowley could just be good, there was a chance things could normalise again and that the cycle could be allowed to start over... And it did nothing to detract from Crowley's current self-loathing that he was A; willing to make do on mere scraps, and B; that he was such a bloody horndog that even when thinking about friendly socialising with Aziraphale there was always that nagging, swooping anticipation in his stomach that there might be something more than just idle chit-chat. Aziraphale deserved so much better than that kind of ulterior motive...  
Crowley would have to behave, he really did. If something more ever did happen again, at least he wanted to be able to feel like he had deserved it a bit by not humping Aziraphale's leg like your aunt's annoying terrier...  
Although... it would appear that Aziraphale was currently the one not quite 'behaving'. The blond was standing over Crowley, blocking out the sun, hands folded in front of him, perhaps a bit tightly, smiling somewhat shyly.  
"Hello," Crowley intoned, twisting around, arse still facing upwards. Aziraphale was in just his waistcoat, shirt and bowtie, as the weather was warm and pleasant and summery. He looked adorable as he stood there, the sun behind his head shining through his pale curls, turning the wispy ends into a ragged halo around his head. He looked soft and fluffy and comfortable, just an odd, little bloke on the verge of middle-age, ready as ever to fully embrace the passage of time and slowly but surely merge into one symbiotic being with his favourite armchair. Like that was so easy... Embracing the passage of time.  
Aziraphale made getting older look easy and cute and dignified and Tipsy Crowley found it bloody annoying.  
"You look... tan," Aziraphale offered. "and potentially drunk..."  
Crowley took a moment to look at the wine bottle. It was half-empty. Like everything else, including the famed glass of water and the great hourglass of his life...  
"Correct on both accounts," he noted.  
"I'm still not quite sure how you do that..." Aziraphale said, his eyes running briefly over Crowley's form, although sadly, not in any interested sort of way.  
"You get a cork screw," Crowley tersely started explaining.  
"I meant the tanning," Aziraphale tutted. "I didn't realise gingers could tan."  
"Mm... My mum's Iraqi," Crowley said, definitely half a bottle of wine-drunk when that kind of information found its way to his lips so easily. "S'where I got the hair... And the ability to not turn into pork crackling when looking up at the full moon. Hoorah for mixed genes..." he cheered sardonically.  
Aziraphale looked duly impressed with this information.  
"Oh. I didn't know that," he said politely. "Which you would obviously know since you would have to be the one to have told me and you haven't until now..." he waffled on. There was an award beat. "May I join you?"  
Crowley both wanted to be behave and was also too fed up with everything to bother being coy about it this time. He just swung his legs off the sunbed and flumped sideways against the raised top end, taking another gulp of wine. After a moment the bottle was plucked out of his hand.  
"Quite alright, dear boy? Aziraphale asked in-between squinting at the label and taking a small sip. His nose scrunched up in the most perfect way any nose had ever scrunched and put the bottle down on the concrete.  
"Never better," Crowley sulked without so much as trying to fake it. "Splendid, even."  
Aziraphale hummed doubtfully.  
"I see..." He took another sip of wine. "I've looked you up on the internet again," he then said.  
Crowley distrusted fate entirely too much to allow himself to think, even for a split second, that this was headed where precedence might lead on to think it was. Nono, knowing his luck, this would definitely have turned up something horrible.  
"And how did that go?" he asked slowly.  
"More smoothly than last time..." Aziraphale started out carefully, clearly monitoring Crowley's reaction. Probably expecting Crowley to misbehave... Testing him... "More fruitful, one might say. I found your nightclub!" the blond continued excitedly. "It was... well. Now I know what it looked like," he finished conciliatorily. "I also found a selection of paparazzi photographs," he added.  
Crowley groaned.  
_Of course you bloody did, didn't you?_  
"Really? Doing what?"  
"Drinking quite a few coffees and looking gloomy while walking places," Aziraphale said plainly. "Drunkenly smiling at the camera. Ducking out of a few limousines with your then-wife." He nodded to himself. "She was quite the catch," he offered politely.  
She had been quite the catch, Crowley's former wife. Curvaceous and dark skinned, with long wavy hair and a bright, flirty smile. Aziraphale had had to remind himself more than once that Crowley was very firmly divorced, as the gorgeous woman was paraded about in various photos, each new outfit more stunning than the previous one. In one particular photograph, which had been taken at quite a distance, clearly by some sleazy paparazzo or other, she and Crowley had been walking hand-in-hand along with a boy, roughly the same age as Adam and his friends were now. The boy's outfit had very clearly been a child's attempt at imitating Crowley, all black with boots and his own little leather jacket, his curly hair braided down to lie flat against his skull, in an approximation of the slicked-back 'do Crowley had sported at the time. They had all been smiling, looking like a high-fashion version of the perfect nuclear family and Aziraphale had once again wondered how on Earth Crowley had tired of that. It looked so... traditional and complete. Nice, frankly... Even though Aziraphale knew that certain things had been somewhat less 'traditional', it still looked like a very pleasant, little family situation. Crowley really had had everything. London and its many... options fully permitted and available by night and a beautiful family by day...  
"She was pretty lush, yeah," Crowley admitted.  
"Quite the darling kid too," Aziraphale continued.  
"Yes, yes, and goodness how _young_ I looked," Crowley snapped. "I bet the stories reported were fascinating too."  
Aziraphale shrugged.  
"I didn't bother reading any of those grubby, little rags," he said dignifiedly. "I just looked a few pictures of you and a bunch of different people."  
Crowley made a noncommittal noise.  
"Anyone interesting?" he asked disinterested.  
Aziraphale shrugged again.  
"It was fun putting a face to the concept of your ex-wife," he said.  
"Ha bloody ha," Crowley said morosely.  
Aziraphale tutted.  
"Really you. What's the matter? Anathema said you've been in a frightful mood lately."  
Crowley's face twisted into a sulky sneer.  
"Oh. Been talkin' about me, have you?"  
"She just made an off-hand comment while telling me about Newton's latest dissatisfied client," Aziraphale said lightly. "She's got a job doing monthly horoscopes for the Advertiser! Isn't that lovely?"  
"I'd've thought you'd've been a bit miffed to have competition on the nonsense-peddling business," Crowley snarked.  
Aziraphale ignored him.  
"I think it's very nice for her that she's getting involved locally like that. People were a tad suspicious of her when she first turned up, this strange American lady with her crystals and such. Working for the Advertiser is a good thing, lends a bit of respectability, that sort of gig, I reckon."  
"Or costs the Advertiser subscribers," Crowley grouched. "Especially if she's stupid enough to just report what she thinks she's seeing rather than the usual feel-good bullshit people expect from newspaper horoscopes."  
Aziraphale scoffed.  
"That's not a very nice thing to say. As if our dear Anathema would scare people away like that!" He stuck his nose in the air, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm sure she'll do just fine."  
"Trouble with 'Nathema is that she believes the nonsense she's trying to sell," Crowley said. "She'll think she's doing people a favour by foretelling death and despair, when all people want is a bit of hope that they might be going on a nice, long holiday soon."  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"As if she would have been asked in the first place if she didn't know how to fluff things up a little," he said. "She's right, Anathema, you know, you're in an absolutely foul mood. What's gotten into you?"  
Crowley blew a wet raspberry and got up from the sunbed. On the way up, he snatched up the wine bottle again.  
"Seasonal mood disorder," he said dismissively, taking a long drag of the wine.  
Aziraphale desperately tried not to stare at his chest hair and averted his eyes. Back to his own eye level. Which was, since he was sitting and Crowley was now standing on his long, long legs, just about at the same heigh as Crowley crotch. Aziraphale decided that the best option was to admit to nothing and thusly simply kept his eyes there. The way one casually looked at any man's crotch...  
It was odd, realising that he know knew with certainty what was... in there. And not just as blurry, accidentally viewed video clip. Aziraphale knew in full detail what Crowley's private parts looked like... With the neatly kept hair, the head flushed dark red and that one vein making its way up the side...  
"I didn't realise you could get that in the summer," he said, clinging onto his last shred of self-control. He had to keep his hands to himself! His thoughts too! "In the winter you can use those fancy lamps with fake sunlight... I'm not sure what you can do in the summer..." he pondered.   
"You can tidy up, which is what I'm about to do," Crowley announced, taking another swig of wine. "You can hang around if you want, but I'm not much fun."  
Aziraphale watched as Crowley swaggered off in his shorts - they were an extra pair of pants he wore on top of his other pair of pants, Aziraphale would swear on it, those were not actual outerwear. And how did his hips even do that.. thing? Aziraphale tried to imagine moving his own body like that, and beside seeming physically impossible, the mental image was also utterly disastrous. Walking like that was meant for a very different sort of people than Aziraphale. Beautiful people...  
And Crowley really was beautiful. No harm in admitting that, surely. The man was, objectively, the loveliest thing to ever walk on land, that was just a fact of life that Aziraphale had only recently become aware of. Quite astounding it was, that there was only a two year gap between them. Looking at them side-by-side one could be forgiven for thinking it was closer to ten. Crowley really made aging look... good. Less like actual aging and more like maturing, less of a journey towards rotting away like an apple left on a lawn and more like a fine wine reaching its peak potential. Slender and... trimmed and well-kept, his crow's feet not so much wrinkles as a handsomely rugged edge to his large, adorable eyes and magazine front page cheekbones.  
Aziraphale looked down at how his stomach was doing its usual thing as he was sitting. Bulging over his thighs where they sagged against the sunbed, damn well doubling in width. Crowley was so maturely youthful, especially next to Aziraphale's pudgy, untrimmed self. Once again he was left to wonder why Crowley had so much as looked at him twice, let alone... done those things that he had. If it was not for the sake of bragging rights - and Aziraphale had to believe the redhead when he said that it was not, for one because he had no choice and also because his whole 'deal' as Crowley might have called it, was to believe in the best in people - then... what in the World for? Some sort of personal therapy, perhaps... Could that be it? Crowley subconsciously wanting, needing... vengeance. Just in a private way, all for himself.  
Aziraphale was unsure what to make of that. It stung a little in some sort of way that he was unwilling to inspect further, but... it was hardly nefarious, was it? If Crowley needed to... drag the clergy down to some sort of human level, needed to 'see for himself' or some such. Aziraphale supposed it was sort of flattering that Crowley trusted him enough, after the abuse he had suffered, to allow Aziraphale that close... And as for Aziraphale acting a little too human, well. Prayer could indeed get one quite far.  
As long as they could be level-headed, catch their breath and then continue their purely platonic friendship, Aziraphale decided that he would just have to find a way to live with his past actions.  
"What sort of tidying?" he asked, getting up and puttering after Crowley, ignoring the sudden pang of recollection, of the days when he would try to partake in conversation with the other boys at school, only to be ignored and walked away from.  
"Just some old paper stuff I may as well get rid of," Crowley said, his tone still gloomy. He swaggered over to the large, green plastic barrel behind the greenhouse that sat against the end wall of the cottage. As Aziraphale walked up to him, Crowley grabbed a cardboard box and emptied half its contents into the slot in the lid and hit a button on the side. The barrel roared and whirred. Crowley hit the button again, turning the thing off and hummed. "Sounds like it's struggling a bit with all the paper..." he said.  
"Why don't you just throw it in the bin?" Aziraphale asked. What in Earth could be in those papers that was so severe that Crowley had to destroy it like that? Could that be what had him in such a glum mood? Something serious?  
"The bin's full..." Crowley sulked.  
Aziraphale peered around the corner of the cottage. The household waste bin as well the paper waste one were indeed full to the point of papers sticking out under the barely closed lids. Of course it was nothing serious. Why did he keep thinking Crowley might be involved in something serious?? And how had he not noticed when first arrived?  
Because you were too busy staring at Crowley, you horrible, horrible person..!  
"Ah. Yes, I see..." Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"When's it gonna be emptied again..?" Crowley asked distractedly.  
"I believe the bin men came for it just yesterday..." Aziraphale said apologetically. "What is all this, anyway?" he asked, nudging the box with his foot while Crowley groaned and whined.  
"Just some stuff," Crowley sighed melodramatically. "Seeing how it's that time of year an' all..."  
Aziraphale nodded politely.  
"I see..." he repeated, puzzledly. A thought struck him that might cheer Crowley up. "Speaking of 'that time of year'," he said. "isn't your birthday coming up soon? On the -"  
Crowley growled.  
"Yeah," he sneered. "exactly. It's the time of year for throwing out old shit from when I was young and pretty, that I didn't realise I'd kept, for fuck knows what reason! That jolly splendid time of year when I'm having it rubbed in my face that the clock is ticking, that my mortal holster is decaying and that my prime years have long since slipped away, like sand through my fingersss!"  
Aziraphale hummed. He had been young once, too. Pretty... perhaps not quite so much, he reckoned. At least nowhere near to the extend Crowley had been. Still very much was. Aziraphale supposed he was sort of lucky to have had less to lose, not quite so far to fall in that respect.   
But all the same, Crowley was being drunkenly overdramatic and utterly silly, Aziraphale decided, and should not be humoured in his self-pitying hissyfit.  
"I shan't even dignify that with a response," Aziraphale said snootily. Goodness. If Crowley thought that he himself was starting to look worn down, what did Aziraphale look like to him?? Once again, the question posed itself, why on Earth Crowley was so keen on... putting his hands on Aziraphale in the first place. But that was a thought better left for another time. Which was never..! "Nothing wrong with a birthday. The more you have, the longer you live, proven fact."  
Crowley paused.  
"You're a prick, d'you know that," he said.  
Aziraphale hummed graciously.  
"How dare," he said aloofly.  
Crowley snickered.  
"Am I to understand you won't be throwing any parties to mark the occasion, then?" Aziraphale asked.  
Crowley pulled a face.  
"Ehh... I just don't... I don't do birthdays..." he muttered, shuffling his feet. "'S'just... Yeah... Phneh..."  
Aziraphale sniffed quietly.  
"Bad memories or...?" he asked, wondering if perhaps he should just leave it be and let Crowley have at least some thoughts just to himself.  
Crowley wrapped his arms around his chest and stuck his hands under his arms.  
"Yeah, yeah that too..." He shifted uncomfortably. "You haven't told anyone about it, have you?" he asked. "Like 'Nathema or..."  
"Oh! Nono, no, not at all, it hadn't occurred to me until just now," he said, pointing back towards the sunbed as if Crowley might have a hard time keeping up with the series of events... "I haven't mentioned it to anyone."  
"Could you keep it that way..?" Crowley asked with a bit of a grimace.  
Aziraphale put finger to his lips.  
"Mum's the word," he said solemnly.  
Crowley snorted.  
"It is, isn't it..."  
Aziraphale squirmed a bit. The tone in Crowley's voice had been a message all onto itself.  
"Would, uh... would you mind if we went inside?" he asked. "Only, I don't have quite as handy genes as you, for tanning, I mean..." He shielded his face against the bright, unhindered sun. "Much too English through-and-through in the respect, one might say. Tend to turn a rather unfetching shade of red, I do, and I seem to have forgotten my hat..."  
Crowley blinked. Or at least, Aziraphale was fairly certain a slow blink was happening behind the dark glasses.  
"Inside?"  
"Out of the sun, yes," Aziraphale said a bit stiffly.  
Crowley hummed.  
"Mmm... Sure. If you like."  
He strolled - or rather, prowled, it felt like - after Aziraphale, who nearly chewed a hole in his lip on the short walk to the front door. Why had he asked to go inside?? To tell Crowley off? To request that he refrain from dropping even thickly veiled, enigmatic comments like that? What could possibly be the reason Aziraphale was inviting himself into the home of a tipsy man who was... _interested_ in him like that? Why was his hand reaching for the handle of the front door now, when he should not _doing_ things like this??  
"Can I get you anything?" Crowley asked smoothly as he shut the front door behind them.  
Aziraphale blinked a few times. There were no lights on inside and after the bright sun outside, the main room felt nearly pitch black.  
"Um, well, perhaps... A cup of tea?" he asked, turning to look at Crowley who was slowly approaching him after taking off his sunglasses. Those extraordinary eyes... "You did have tea, no? Marjie had been to visit, didn't you say? That time I scalded my hand on your fanciful tap... When you were poorly..." Aziraphale rambled, his hands writhing in front of his midriff. He backed towards the kitchen. "But, uh, I got the hang of it, didn't I, so if you could just... point me in the direction of the tea, I can help myself..."  
As his backside hit the kitchen counter next to the sink, Crowley caught up with him, sunglasses discarded.  
"Was that all you wanted to come inside for?" he asked huskily. "A cup of tea?"  
Aziraphale swallowed. Why was Crowley always so warm?? So damn inviting...  
"Yes," Aziraphale answered firmly. "It... it has to be," he continued, tearing his gaze from Crowley's and drawing his shoulders up slightly. "There's... there's no other way." He looked up at Crowley again, hopelessly, unable to help himself from taking another look at those lovely, yellow eyes. This up-close, he could see all the differently coloured flecks of colour that made up the yellow, the pale greenish base and the spots of bright orange here and there... "We talked about this..."  
Crowley held his breath for a second, then sighed, nodded and, blessedly - sadly? No, blessedly, surely. Why would it be a sad thing?? - backed away slightly. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a box of tea bags and a mug.  
"Yeah, sure, a'ight, fair 'nuff, you did say so..."  
Aziraphale very carefully poured himself a mug of hot water, all without incident, while Crowley slinked back to the sofa and flopped into the seat.  
The sofa. The scene of the Original Crime, that one drunken kiss that had drilled the first hole in the ever eroding dam of Aziraphale's self-control... Aziraphale for a moment considered if he could perhaps get away with hopping onto one of the bar stools by the island counter, rather than going to sit next to Crowley on the sofa, without seeming odd, but he was hardly the 'barstool by the island counter' sort... He just did not want Crowley to get any ideas... about the nature of his visit this afternoon, because then he himself might get ideas and... well. It would not be fair to lead Crowley on, to give him false hopes, Aziraphale recognised as much.  
Nervously, Aziraphale stooped his teabag up and down in his mug a few times.  
"I take you don't have a long list of birthday wishes, then?" he asked.  
"Bit tricky to grift presents out of people if you don't tell them about the occasion, I often find," Crowley said dryly. He had flipped upside-down on the sofa, his legs hooked over the backrest and his head hanging off the edge of the seat. Aziraphale figured that was as comfortable a way to sit in the uncomfortable thing as any. "Fuck me, I hate getting old..." Crowley groaned pathetically.  
"You're not old," Aziraphale tutted.  
_You're perfect..._  
"I am, though," Crowley bickered. "Once you reach 37, you're done a queer bloke. Your street value drops with about 75 percent."  
Aziraphale quietly thought to himself that that still left Crowley with more so-called 'street value' than Aziraphale had probably ever had.  
"If you're so bothered by the passage of time," he said, deciding against voicing that rather depressing thought which continued to press the subject of 'why me'. "why don't you... 'get some work done' I believe is the term. Fix things up a bit. A financially well-padded fellow like you can surely find a nice, cushy clinic somewhere to check into for a bit?"  
Crowley blew a loud raspberry.  
"Hahaha, no. Nope, no gracias, I tried that exactly once," he said, holding up an illustrative finger. The way his legs were bent created a couple of tiny, soft little folds in the skin across his stomach and they were so darnedly adorable that Aziraphale decided that his teabag needed to get out of the pool now despite not having stooped for quite as long as he would have liked. He quickly busied himself with safely placing the wet teabag in the sink, rather than ogling Crowley while the redhead kept talking; "Never doing that again."  
Aziraphale was running out of teabag related activities and was panicking slightly. He decided that milk might be nice and tottered over to have a long, hard look in Crowley's, as usual, near-empty fridge, which contained absolutely no trace of milk.  
"O-oh?" he stammered, staring at a bottle of what looked to be Anathema's homemade lemonade, which lay on the top shelf.  
"Ye... Got botox once," Crowley said surly. With a put-upon sigh he seemed to decide that he may as well continue with the story; "Got it done... couldn't move my damned brows at all for a month and a half. The missus cried with laughter every time she looked at me until it wore off."  
Blameful eyes met Aziraphale's as Aziraphale could no longer delay things and was cautiously venturing towards the sofa.  
"That wasn't very kind of her..." he said, trying to sit as far away from Crowley as possible so as to avoid any accidental brushing that might unintentionally suggest something, while at the same time also trying to not look like that was what he was doing, so as to not cause offence. A somewhat delicate task while also juggling a mug of tea _and_ trying to sit naturally.  
Crowley made a regretful noise.  
"It was honest," he said. "D'y'know what I looked like?" he asked irritatedly. "I looked like an insecure, vain prick who was trying too hard to deny his age. It was pathetic!"  
Aziraphale sipped his tea. Crowley was clearly experiencing a bit of discord between his self-image as a confident man and his disdain for growing old. It was ridiculous and... sweet. Human. Vulnerable and complicated, like most things about Crowley once you looked close enough.  
"And getting wine-drunk on a weekday afternoon and moping about the inescapable passage of time isn't?" he shot back, quite unfairly, but he thought that Crowley would prefer bickering over commentary on his illogical sensibilities. A man had his pride, Aziraphale figured. Best not to prod where it really hurt.  
Crowley lolled his head to the side and glared. He raised a stiff finger, pointing it accusatorially at Aziraphale, grinding his teeth. After a moment he seemed to give up on coming up with a clever reply and simply harrumphed, crossing his arms over his bony chest.  
For a handful of minutes they sat in silence, Crowley's eyes slowly zoning out and Aziraphale simply sipping his tea. Aziraphale was relieved to find that it was not the least bit awkward. Their weeks of keeping a bit of distance had certainly been a good idea, but things were apparently quite capable of being normal between them.  
The silence was broken by Crowley's mobile phone buzzing on the coffee table. Aziraphale automatically looked towards the source of the noise and squinted at the tiny font on the screen. The reason for the buzzing was an email announcing some sale or other, but above it sat a notification for a missed call from -  
"Who is... 'Angel'?" Aziraphale asked slowly.  
He knew exactly who, for several reasons, including the fact that he had tried to ring Crowley before going to his house, only to be met with by cocky voicemail.  
Crowley froze. He peered up at Aziraphale with a look on his face like a dog who had been caught redpawed, rummaging through a bin.  
"Uh... Well... Ech..."  
Aziraphale stared.  
"I cannot believe you!" he sputtered furiously. "I asked you _nicely_ to not -!"  
Crowley struggled to sit up in some way or another.  
"It's only a phone contact!" he hissed as if the walls might have ears.  
"How did you even get my number?!" Aziraphale asked shrilly.  
"You gave it to me!" Crowley retorted. "When I was sick! You left me your card!"  
_Damn it..._  
"And then you thought you'd add it under that name! What if someone sees -!"  
"No one's gonna see! And even if they do, they won't know it's you, will they?" Crowley argued. "And also... your name's kinda... long and stupid and hard to spell," he said defensively.  
"You had the card!" Aziraphale hissed. "You didn't have to guess! You could've just copied -"  
"Z's are kinda... weird," Crowley whined with a face that suggested he was loathe to part with this information. "They make my eyes feel like they're spazzing out." He paused. "There's a z in your name, right?" he then asked.  
Aziraphale deflated. His name was a bit long and... well. Taking potshots at Crowley's dyslexia seemed unreasonable. Aziraphale could vividly recall seeing his name spelled out as a child and struggling his way through it, wondering if he would ever learn.  
"I... suppose that's fair enough..." he admitted.  
"Must've been a rough name to take to playground," Crowley noted.  
Off on one of his tangents again, so he was, apparently. It was better than the wallowing about the unfairness of aging attractively.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"You've no idea how relieved I was told everyone went by their surname at St David's," he scoffed.  
"Why the Hell name you kid something like that when you know you'll be sending them off to Bully Paradise as soon as?" Crowley groused. "Bit mean if you ask me."  
"I was named after one of my grandfathers," Aziraphale explained. "Who died in 1898..."  
"Thaaat's not one of the best generations to be named after," Crowley commiserated.  
"How about you?" Aziraphale asked. "Did you have some interesting middle name from you mother's side? I mean, before you changed it?"  
Crowley shook his head.  
"Nah. They stayed away that, my folks. For like... integration's sake I guess. People have some pretty strong opinions on people who sound too foreign, y'know? And Mum was Catholic too, obviously, so it would've just been something like Simon or Peter anyway."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Ah, yes... I see."  
"Speaking of interesting names," Crowley said, folding his legs up in a way that should not have been humanly possible. "aren't you a bit too much of a grandpa to be calling yourself 'Father A'?"  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"It's not me doing it," he argued. "But something like 40 years ago there used to be two priests in the parish. One of them was Father Alan, who was called Father A and the other bloke was called... Father C, I think? I never met him, he passed away years before I came here. Then when Father A went onto his reward as well, people had a bit of trouble of getting out of the habit of asking for 'Father A' and... well. It fit, so it just stuck."  
Crowley hummed and nodded.  
"Took over his job, even took over his nickname. Damn. Do you wear his socks too?"  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Well, I still use his black chasuble when people request that sort of thing for funerals," he said. "Never bothered buying my own. I vastly prefer the violet one but sometimes people have different preferences and it is literally a service that I'm providing, so..." He made a conclusive gesture.  
Crowley sighed. He wished his wine buzz would have stayed around a little longer. Might have been less rubbish, trying to be a good person and not put undue pressure on Aziraphale.  
"Yeah. Anything for the customers," he shrugged.  
Aziraphale shifted a bit in his seat. Looked about nervously. His hands fiddled desperately with the mug of tea. Maybe some sort of change of topic would be good.  
"Been thinking..." Crowley started, unsure what the fuck he wa supposed to have been thinking about. All he had had on his mind for the last week had, decreasingly, been how hot going down Aziraphale had been, and increasingly how much he hated birthdays.  
"What about?" Aziraphale asked carefully but politely.  
_C'mon, brain..!_  
"That bloke."  
_No! Nonono, you little, slimy, grey prick, no!_  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Bloke? What bloke?"  
Crowley wished his wine buzz had either stayed around for longer so he would not have had to go through with this while almost sober, or that it would have fucked off sooner so he could have avoided this conversation all together.  
"That... dude-bloke-fella-guy of yours," he said, with what he hoped was a very casual sort of sniffle. "In seminary."  
Aziraphale's frown deepened, past cute and into uncomfortable territory.  
"What... what about him?"  
"What's his name?" Crowley asked casually.  
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  
"Why do you want to know?"  
"Just curious," Crowley said irritatedly. _Look, I don't fucking know either, okay, can't you just work with me here??_ "So what did you two get up to?" he continued when it became clear that Aziraphale was not about to answer. "besides... what you've already told..."  
Aziraphale squirmed. Odd line of inquiry, this.  
"Well, I... we - we did our homework together," he said hesitantly. "Usually with several others," he clarified before Crowley could make any funny remarks. "Took part in different social activities with our classmates..."  
"D'd'e never take you out or summat?" Crowley asked, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them.  
Aziraphale folded his hands tightly in his lap.  
"We went to the theatre once..." he confessed, not meeting Crowley's gaze. "Proper play, not the pictures. We saw 'Much Ado about Nothing'..."  
Crowley cackled.  
"Bit of heavy petting in the back row," he crowed impishly. "My, my, lads."  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"Oh, don't! It wasn't like that! Lindy wasn't like -"  
" _Lindy_??" Crowley sputtered. "His name was _Lindy_ , are you shitting me??" He barked a laugh. "Posh sorta bloke, by any chance?"  
Aziraphale shot Crowley a flat look.  
"It's not nice to laugh at other people's names," he said. After a beat he continued; "But yes, he was... somewhat..."  
He did not mean to giggle, did not mean to laugh at someone he had been so close with, but it just all seemed so distant and faint when Crowley was right there, being a bit of an arse and flashing that ruggedly perfect grin of his, cackling like a witch.  
"His name was Lindy and he took you to see a Shakespeare play," Crowley crowed. "That's not 'somewhat' posh, that's just posh. He was probably standoffish at the theatre 'cos sitting with a silver spoon up your hole is awkward as all get-out."  
Aziraphale had to put down his mug.  
"You're a monster!" he sobbed while his cheeks hurt from grinning.  
"He dumped you!" Crowley argued. "Fuck 'im. Did he have stupid hair too? Or a lisp? Come on, trash him!"  
This was fun! Talking shit about the one prat who had dared get there before Crowley. Had there been thirty it would have been fine, but right now it felt like one-on-one competition...  
Aziraphale's laughter died.  
"He... he didn't dump me," he said lowly.  
Crowley blinked.  
"I thought you said he walked out?"  
Aziraphale swallowed.  
"He did... Suggested I'd better come with him... I refused," he said, willing his voice to stay nice and even. "Told him there was no way that I would be leaving seminary and that since I now had to choose..."  
Crowley's eyes had gone wide and curious and concerned in that awfully troubling way that they did. Like he needed to know everything so he could care about it.  
"Worried what your mother would say?" he asked.  
Aziraphale nodded, lips pressed tightly together, only trusting himself to hum in reply.  
"But... then she died, right?" Crowley continued. "Couldn't you... then..."  
Aziraphale scoffed softly.  
"Lindy made it very clear that our last conversation was... well. Our last," he said.  
Crowley had no idea how you could be stupid enough to just give up on Aziraphale like that and be able to work a door handle.  
"If you'd gone after him," he suggested, because apparently what he really really wanted was to make Aziraphale consider that perhaps things could have worked out with some other wanker from a long time ago who had in no way, shape or form deserved so much as a minute of Aziraphale's attention anyway. "Surely you could've talked to him -"  
"I do not," Aziraphale cut him off, voice suddenly very determined, albeit with a hint of a tremble around the edges, his posture very straight and his hands folded very tightly in his lap. "run after people and beg. Never have. Don't intend to come into the habit any time soon."  
 _No. No, you don't, do you, Angel? You can barely bring yourself to write an application for funds for your church roof..._  
Underneath a thick layer of concern that he had prodded at some severe scars from Aziraphale's time as the 'the fat bookworm', Crowley was also weirdly turned on by this display of stubborn pride. Aziraphale gave so much, it was nice to see him be a bit tight-fisted with his concessions.  
Crowley made a creaky noise.  
"Nmph... Fair 'nuff..."  
Aziraphale sighed deeply, sagging slightly in his seat, almost as if he had been holding his breath, waiting for Crowley's approval of the statement.  
"I... I did meet him again, much later," he said, eyes distant. "About ten years ago, in London. There was a clerical conference and I had nipped out for a spot of lunch... He was at the café too, with his family. Husband and three kids. The oldest was from a previous relationship of his husband's, the younger two were adopted. They'd done a tour at a dormitory somewhere, for the oldest one, she was off to college in September..." he trailed off.  
Crowley regretted bringing up what sounded like it had been a messy split, the memories of Lindy - that was one name Crowley was guaranteed to remember until the day his mind went - going on to having it all with kids and the whole shebang, and he also regretted the image he was currently seeing in his mind, of what could have been, of Aziraphale and Mr Generic, with three kids and ugly, matching scarves, happily looking at dorm rooms and beaming with nervous excitement that their kid was going off on their first big adventure.  
"Sounds... nice," he said lamely.  
Aziraphale gave a single, barely audible laugh.  
"Lindy had gone on to teach English and music in secondary school," he explained, not looking at Crowley. "His husband was a realtor. They lived on Hampstead Heath... They were happy," he continued, very quietly. "I'm glad he went on to have a happy life," he finished, after clearing his throat a bit.  
_Are you happy too, Angel?_  
"Yeah, yeah. Good for him," Crowley said disinterestedly. Aziraphale's eyes snapped back to his and a look of surprise dawned on his face. Crowley realised he had scooted closer on the sofa and that his bony knee was nearly knocking against Aziraphale's thigh.  
"Yes. It's nice when everything works out for the best," Aziraphale said with strained cheeriness. "He got what he wanted and... and I continued on with the path I had set my eyes on. Everyone had achieved what they wanted. What could be better?"  
"You tell me..." Crowley said lowly.  
Aziraphale's eyes went very round.  
"Crowley..." He dropped his eyes to his hands, which were now back to fiddling nervously in his lap. "I can't."  
Crowley had honestly meant it as a more open-ended plea for Aziraphale to lean on him if he needed any sort of... anything, really, but as they sat there, on Crowley's sofa, 'in the room where it happened', with Crowley still shirtless - why still shirtless, why?? - he could sort of see why Aziraphale had made certain assumptions.  
"Yeah... Yeah, I know," he said, holding up a hand. "Trying to do better, I know, I get it."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Yes..."  
"Fuck knows how you could be doing much better, but what the Hell do I know," Crowley shrugged vexedly. He wished Aziraphale would stop talking like he had a whole host of things to improve upon when he had the actual sun shining out of his arse merely by breathing.  
"Unlike you, I can't afford to just... _act_ on things," Aziraphale sighed. He squirmed a bit in his seat and his hip ended up actually pressing against Crowley's knee. He felt very warm through the fabric, against Crowley's naked skin.  
Crowley nodded.  
"Then don't act," he said. "You're absolutely free to not act." He meant it too, but he wished for Aziraphale to have a moment's weakness just then, like the terrible friend that he was.  
Aziraphale chewed on the inside of his lip.  
"If only it were that easy," he chuckled bitterly.  
Well. That was a bit of a loaded statement, no? From the cheap seat, Crowley's wine buzz decided to pipe up again;  
"It is."  
Aziraphale met his gaze, disappointment writ all over his face.  
"Is it?" he muttered.  
Crowley nodded. He could feel Aziraphale press harder against his knee.  
"Yeah... You don't have to do anything..."  
Aziraphale swallowed hard. The way Crowley was looking at him reminded him of being cornered against a wall and wondering what on Earth he could possibly do to defend his own virtue, should a tall, dark, handsome stranger decided to lean down and brazenly steal a kiss off his lips...  
Perhaps this thought was why he was not even a little bit surprised when a thin hand suddenly wrapped itself around the back of his neck and Crowley pulled him in for a kiss. For a second he really did nothing at all, pro or con, then his brain seemed to send out a strategy to his muscles, way before circulating an internal memo to actually let him know what was going on. His hand raised itself and pushed against Crowley's sternum, forcing them apart.  
For a moment they just looked at each other, both blank-faced and expectant, then Aziraphale cleared his throat and very casually got up from the sofa.  
"I should be getting home, then," he said, smoothing down his waistcoat.  
Crowley's forehead scrunched up with worry. Thank goodness he had never taken to botox, it would have been a crime to deprive the World of those many, lovely expressions the redhead could make.  
"Oh, don't give me that," Aziraphale tutted softly. "I'll be seeing you at poker, later tonight."  
Crowley's forehead smoothed out slightly, but he still looked a tad stumped.  
"Erhm... Poker night..." he said dumbfoundedly.  
"I'm sure you can see why I have to go," Aziraphale continued firmly, fiddling with his bowtie to ensure it was only a fashionable amount of askew, rather than a 'just got kissed' amount. He peered down at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. "You've misbehaved quite enough for today."  
Crowley blinked a few times. Aziraphale could almost hear the 'pling' when the penny dropped.  
"Right. Yeah. Misbehaving, yes. My middle name!" the redhead agreed, unfolding himself from the sofa to stand as well.  
"I thought your middle name began with a 'j'," Aziraphale said tersely.  
"The 'j' is silent," Crowley said distractedly, his eyes locked on Aziraphale's lips.  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"You're a horror, you are," he scoffed. "Kissing a priest." He shook his head, clicking his tongue, and made for the front door. He did not need to look back to now the redhead was smirking as he replied;  
"I can only apologise."  
"Well, I should certainly hope so," Aziraphale sniffed. As he reached for the door handle, he looked back over his shoulder with a small smile. "I'll be seeing you a poker night, then."  
"Just one thing," Crowley said hurriedly, just as Aziraphale was about to open the door.  
"Yes-mmph!"  
Crowley crowded Aziraphale against the front door, genuinely catching him by surprise this time, as he bent down at helped himself to another kiss.  
"Now. Now I can be good for the rest of the day," Crowley announced as he pulled away.  
Aziraphale caught his breath, which had left him quite a bit more than what a brief kiss should have been able to cause.  
"You fiend," he said flatly.  
"Absolutely," Crowley agreed. "How dare I."  
"Be very ashamed!" Aziraphale chided, his eyes locked on Crowley's as he finally opened the front door.  
"Never," Crowley said with elegant defiance, draping himself against the door frame. "I ought to, seeing how I'm solely responsible for this gross misdeed, but I'm just too bloody incorrigible, me."  
Aziraphale pursed his lips, fighting back a smile. With one last look at Crowley, he hurried down the road, back to the village.  
It seemed his little visit had taken Crowley's mind off his birthday grievances, at least for a while. How marvelous it was, being able to help out his neighbours like that.  
He had completely forgotten about Lindy and his happy family as he strolled down the main street and was greeted by Maude who reminded him an extra discussion point she had thought of for next month's parish council meeting.  
And why would he worry about someone else's happy life when he had so much going for himself?

And sure, he had a few troubles too, such as his ravishingly handsome neighbour and his unfortunate habit of kissing Aziraphale, but. Oh, well. What could one do? It was pure joy to face trials of many kinds, as they said...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you, thia may seem slow, but in little ways this is doing stuff. Honest 
> 
> >___>


	28. Chapter 28

_Monday 21st August_

Aziraphale was once again on the run from work. Or, to be perfectly fair, he had returned from the old folks' home and had foregone willing away three hours in the office. Instead he had gone for a stroll. Through the village. Had popped into the bakery to see if Bert had anything interesting to offer that day - which he did. His wife had had a go at custard eclairs and had promised to put two aside for Aziraphale - and was now headed nowhere in particular... Across the street, perhaps... To have a look at Crowley's self-serve box which had some very dear, potted tuberoses. Certainly not to peer inside the shop to see if the man himself was around. Nono. Merely keeping an eye out, since Aziraphale would obviously have to be careful around him... given how he seemed to have gave issues with personal boundaries and such...   
There was absolutely no Crowley to be found in the shop. Honestly, was that man ever actually at _work_??  
Aziraphale tried the door. It was open. So Crowley must be around somewhere or perhaps he had just popped out for a moment and would soon be back. A bit rude of Aziraphale to sneak in like this... He hoped Crowley would not be too... vexed by it. Goodness knew what the ginger might do if provoked -!  
The sound of something hissing and struggling out back pulled Aziraphale out of his own head - which served to slow his heart rate down to something more normal for his current level of activity.   
"Crowley?"  
Aziraphale poked his head out of through the backdoor, only to find Crowley struggling to cram a large cardboard box into the paper waste bin. He looked up at the sound of his name.  
"Oh. It's you. Hi." Crowley returned to struggling with the box, nearly climbing head-first into the bin.  
"What on Earth are you doing?" Aziraphale asked.   
"Throwing out stuff," Crowley grumbled.   
"Again??" Aziraphale sputtered. "How much do you have to throw away??"  
Crowley swept his hair out of his face.  
"I'd filled the normal bin at home, hadn't I?" he asked. "And the paper bin. And the normal bin wasn't gonna be emptied for ages, so I'm relocating a few bits and bobs, innit?"   
"What about the compost grinder?" Aziraphale asked.   
Crowley snarled.  
"Gave up, the fickle bitch..."   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"That's what you get for misappropriating tools," he said snootily, as if he himself was not blessed by the Lord with ten thumbs and a poor to nonexistent knowledge of which way was up on a hammer. "What exactly is it you're so desperate to be rid of??"   
"Just old crap, I told you," Crowley said, slamming down the lid on the paper bin. Or, well. Half-way down, anyway, which was the furthest it could go, since it was nearly time for it to be emptied and its job was to contain the paper and cardboard produced by two small, independent businesses which were prone to buying stock often, but in smaller quantities due to a lack of storage space, which generated an ungodly amount of boxes which one business owner was unwilling to properly flatten out and the other was too fed up to bother with fixing.   
Aziraphale wondered what sort of old crap it could possibly be, but it seemed like he was unlikely to get an answer. Instead, he let himself be shooed back inside by Crowley.   
"No young Newton today?" he asked.   
Crowley grunted.  
"Sergeant Shitshed needed him for something else," he shrugged. "He's not technically my employee, I just rent him by the hour when I feel like treating myself to a migraine..." He took a deep breath. "Can I help with anything?" he offered, in what Aziraphale suspected was the most pleasant tone of voice he could manage at the moment.   
"I was unsure if you were in," Aziraphale explained as Crowley pushed the door mostly shot, allowing a bit of air flow. "But the door was open..."  
"So like the Angel you are, you just broke and entered anyway?" Crowley said tersely, wiping his hands on a red and black tea towel on his work bench. "Nah, I'm here. Slaving away to help other people soothe their guilty conscience over their marital faux-pas."  
Aziraphale shuffled his feet. So still rather grumpy, were we? Or was this just Crowley's usual cynical outlook, really?  
"Didn't seem like there'd be any harm in it," he said innocently. "Hardly like anything... ominous could happen from going into a flower shop..."   
Crowley paused, bend over a bouquet of willowherb and gladiolus which looked like it had been abandoned where it sat next to one of those keyboard less laptops that everyone seemed so fond of these days. Deidre had one too, she had been terribly excited about getting it. Crowley's was zoomed all the way in, making the font on the screen as large as possible.   
"Could it not?" Crowley asked slowly, peering around the curtain of hair that hung down the side of his face.   
Aziraphale snapped his gaze away and clicked his tongue.   
"Obviously not. What could you possibly do?" he asked aloofly, neatly folding his hands.   
There was a beat, during which Aziraphale dared another peek at Crowley, only to be peeked straight back at, then the answer came, as he was crowded up against a flower fridge, Crowley's nose a hair's breadth from his own.   
"You'd be shocked and horrified, Angel..."   
Aziraphale was certainly frozen in horror as he helplessly had a kiss stolen from his lips. _Quite_ against his will. Absolutely! And if maybe his hand found a way to tremblingly rest on Crowley's waist, that was entirely an a failed attempt at defending himself.  
"Was there something you wanted?" Crowley huffed against Aziraphale's lips as he broke away.  
"Nothing in particular that I can think of, no..." Aziraphale muttered back. "Just thought I'd see how you were faring..."   
Crowley was about to give what would undoubtably have been a witty reply when an absolute racket could be heard through the slightly ajar backdoor.   
"What in the World..?" Aziraphale mumbled as distant voices could be heard shouting and screaming. As he and Crowley disentangled themselves and crept over to peer out into the yard, ears peeled. The voices sounded as if they came from further down the main street. It could not quite be heard what was said, but the general tone of the conversation was obvious.  
"I gotta see this," Crowley sniffled matter-of-factly.  
Aziraphale felt less of an urge to look in on some an argument and more of an obligation to be on hand, somehow, and followed the redhead as he slinked back through the shop and out onto the pavement.  
The participants of the shouting-match turned out to be the hairdresser Laura and her husband. They were in the middle of the street outside the hair salon, screaming at each other, while small crowds of neighbours were gathering around the periphery, looking awkwardly on as if unsure what exactly to do, but unable to look away. Anathema looked like she had been caught out, a bag clearly containing take-out from the Tree in her hand, the unpleasant scene efficiently cutting her off from returning to her shop. The decibel lever was outright impressive. Crowley and Aziraphale stopped at the foot of the front steps of the flower shop, but could hear every syllable, clear as day.   
"It's not my fault I'm outtuva job!!"  
"No, but it sure as shit is your fault that I'm the only one working _and_ the only one doing fuck-all around the house, Callum!!"  
"I just asked if you had to work tonight!!"  
"I'M JUST TRYIN' TO KEEP A FUCKING ROOF OVER OUR HEADS, YOU BLOODY WASTE OF SPACE, WHICH IS MORE THAN YOU ARE!!"  
"I'M TRYING TO FIND A JOB!!"  
"IF YOU'D TRIED YOU'D'VE FOUND ONE BY NOW!!"  
To Aziraphale's left, Crowley sucked air in through his teeth.   
"Whoops..."  
"Oh... Good Lord..." Aziraphale sighed. The Mastersons had been a powder keg since Callum had lost his job, or at least, that was the opinion Aziraphale had formed, based on the updates he had received on the situation from Deidre, but he had thought they would have refrained from exploding in the middle of the street like this...   
In the middle of the street, onto which their son and his friends were just now arriving...  
Aziraphale grabbed for Crowley's shoulder without looking and instead found his chest, but it hardly mattered. It got the redheads attention. Aziraphale nodded towards the children. Brian stood in the middle of the group, looking completely lost. Adam had a hand on his shoulder and Pepper had pulled her bike in front of everyone else, as if trying to put herself between her friend and his screaming parents.   
Crowley grimaced. He shot Aziraphale a quick look and slipped away, towards the group of children. He grabbed Brian around his shoulders, leaving the boy's rusty old bike on the pavement and dragged him backwards. Wensleydale grabbed the bike and hauled it along with his own as he followed Adam who had started trailing after Crowley. Aziraphale watched them all abandon their bikes in a heap on the pavement and shuffle into the flower shop, then he huffed out a deep breath and cleared his throat.  
"Right," he said briskly, his voice nearly drowned out completely by the heated yelling. "Laura, Callum, come now, this is hardly the place..."

In the flower shop backroom, Crowley let go of Grubby. The kid looked visibly shaken.   
"So, anyway..." Crowley said, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Closing both the front and backdoor had nearly shut out the sound of the fight. Nearly... "What else is new?"   
The other kids filed in and looked at Grubby who just stood awkwardly where Crowley had put him, looking like he was trying to put on a brave face. No one said anything.  
Crowley clicked his tongue.   
"Sometimes grown-ups get a bit shouty," he said restlessly. "It'll be... it's whatever," he finished, waving a hand vaguely about.   
"I think it's rotten when parents fight in front of their kids," Pinkie glowered, shooting a dirty looking towards the front of the shop. "My mum says you shouldn't ever do that."   
_Their kid, the entire fucking village and the horse they rode in on...  
_ "Shit happens," Crowley said. "They didn't do it on purpose."   
"D'you think they're gonna get divorced now?" Grubby asked.   
"Nah," Crowley said assuringly, while the faint sound of continued arguing could be heard from outside. "They'll get over it... People do. They're just a bit bothered 'cos they're strapped for cash..."  
It was his genuine opinion too. That was not a divorce fight, that show out there, due to the simple fact that screaming at each other until your faces turned blue in the middle of the street was a pretty divorce-worthy thing to do and people never got divorced over divorce-worthy things like that.   
"Mum's been working a lot..." Grubby explained. "Dad says she's never home anymore..."  
"Aw, poor Dad has to cook dinner for once," Pinkie shot back. "Your mum told my mum he's been complaining about that. That's rubbish."  
"He's not very good at it, though..." Brian said. "What's he gonna eat if they get divorced?"   
"Crowley's on his own. He manages his own dinners," Pinkie pointed out.   
Hardly true, but to argue would be to admit a thing or two that Crowley was not about to own up to.   
"Actually, doesn't he just get Father A to cook him food?" Speccy asked.   
"Father A's a guy too," Pinkie argued.  
"Yeah, but... Father A's... Father A," Speccy said.   
Crowley quietly wondered if the kid had just queer-coded Aziraphale in the rudest and most accurate way.   
"I don't think Father A's gonna cook my dad hot meals if they get divorced..." Grubby muttered.   
Suddenly the backdoor opened and Anathema muscled her way in, with a lidded pitcher in her hand, her bag of pub grub swinging from her wrist and a bunch of mismatched mugs cradled  
in her free arm.   
"Hey, guys... Who wants some lemonade..?" she huffed with forced cheerfulness.  
The open door left ample opportunity for the continued shouting to fill the room. Crowley cringed and grabbed Anathema by the arm, hauling her inside and tried to shoulder the door shut again, but was too slow. Before he had a time to fully close it, Aziraphale's voice could be heard, louder than Crowley had ever imagined that it could be;  
"THAT'S QUITE ENOUGH, THANK YOU!"  
Everyone in the backroom froze, Anathema halfway through the process of depositing her burdens on the work table. After a beat, she whistled lowly.  
"Whew..."  
Crowley was vaguely turned on. Mind, he had already been a bit on edge in that regard after Aziraphale had turned up earlier, looking innocent as sin, but having the blond getting all... stern and forceful was just unfair.   
Anathema finished dumping everything on the table and pulled the lid off the pitcher.   
"So... lemonade?"  
Speccy's bony, little hand shot out. The other kids soon followed, even Grubby shuffled along, albeit without much enthusiasm. As his friends sipped their lemonades and giggled when their faces screwed up, he just stood there, holding his mug.   
"C'mon, Brian," Adam said once his mouth was done puckering up like a chicken's arsehole. "It's really good."  
Anathema shot the boy a look through the corner of her eye while she commandeered the only seat in the room and dug out her styrofoam box from the Tree.   
"Would anyone mind if I had lunch?"   
Crowley was trying to listen through the closed backdoor.   
"Eh, weh, whatever..." he muttered.  
"What're you having?" Speccy asked.   
"I'm having fries," Anathema said enigmatically. "Would you like one?"   
Crowley growled as the the kid blabbered his thanks and Anathema started trying to persuade Grubby to help himself to one as well. Bloody irritating all this yapping while he was trying to listen... Had things quieted down outside?  
The answer came a mere second later as the backdoor of the shop was opened by a ruffled-looking Aziraphale.   
"Hello, everyone."  
He had a edged sort of gleam in his eyes that left everyone quiet. Then after a beat, Adam piped up;  
"HI. I'M A SHOUTY MAN!!" he announced emphatically.   
Crowley chortled along with the children, even Grubby, who snorted lemonade out through his nose and all the way down his front. Anathema gave him a confused look, clearly wondering why that would be _that_ funny and Aziraphale looked rather chastised.   
"Yes, well..." he muttered, his ears going slightly pink.   
"It's, uh... It's from a show," Crowley explained through the corner of his mouth, still chuckling. "Off the telly... It's funny."   
Aziraphale nodded like a man who was not at all following what had just been said to him.  
"Ah. I see..."  
"Father A," Grubby asked. "Are my parents gonna get divorced?"  
"Oh! No, nono! Certainly not!" Aziraphale said quickly, but Crowley could have sworn he sensed a hint of uncertainty. "No, I, uh... I managed - I mean, things have calmed down now. Sometime's things just come to a bit of a head..."  
Crowley definitely heard 'in the middle of the street...' muttered under Aziraphale's breath.  
"Right... Anyone want more fries?" Anathema asked after an awkward moment of everyone collectively reserving their right to doubt the truth of Aziraphale's words.  
"I wanna fag," Crowley announced. He slinked out into the backyard. "Fancy one?" he asked over his shoulder, clearly aimed at Aziraphale.   
"Yeah, go on," Adam said from Anathema's side where he was looking appraisingly at the chips in her tray.   
Aziraphale was about to say a few stern words when there was a loud, incessant knocking on the shop front door.   
Everyone in the backroom stopped dead in their tracks.  
"If that's -" Crowley started.  
Arpee's voice interrupted him, muffled through both the shop glass front and the backroom door.   
"Mr Crowley!"  
"It is..." Aziraphale said gravely.  
"What the fuck's he want now??" Crowley moaned.   
"I'm sure he wanting to tell ya, willing to tell ya, waiting to tell ya," Anathema noted pointedly.   
"'M'no' goin' out there," Crowley announced stubbornly.   
"He'll just come 'round here and complain 'cos you're smoking in a residential area," Adam said, eerily straight-faced.   
"He will," Aziraphale agreed. "I've already had to shoo him off after -" He cut himself off and sent Grubby a quick glance. "He's got his heckles up, is what I'm saying..."  
Crowley groaned, casting a glance around the yard. He had over-stuffed the bin, he had a pallet of weedkiller sat around haphazardly and then there was rusty oil barrel in which he had taken to burning cut-offs from his flower arrangements... The last thing he needed was Arpee seeing it all...  
"MR CROWLEY!"   
"Yes, a'ight, fine, I'm coming, I'm coming, sheesh!"  
Crowley strode through the shop, lit cigarette still hanging from his lips, not giving a fig if it was going to stick in the air. He smelled like an ashtray everywhere he went anyway, he always did no matter what, or so his ex-wife had claimed anyway, so one or two puffs would hardly make a difference in the shop. Outside the glass store front, Arpee stood, fist raised, poised to knock again. He... reacted in some fashion upon seeing Crowley approach him from the backroom. 'Lit up' was a much too generous term.   
"Can I help you, Mr Taylor?" Crowley asked after opening the door and taking immense joy in watching the old man realise it had not been locked in the first place.   
"Yes!" Arpee sputtered. "There are bikes all over the stretch of pavement for which you are responsible!" He furiously pointed down the street.  
Crowley took in the kids' disorderly parking skills. He felt a certain kinship to it.   
"Well, they ain't mine," he said, tapping his smoke against the door frame, sadly not quite managing to get ash on the old menace's shoes. "I don't think I'm allowed to have the scrapped without putting up one of those warning signs." His first _spot_ when he had gone on the game had been by a wall which had had one of those on it. In-between his dyslexia and needing to keep an eye our for johns, it had taken him a couple of weeks to struggle his way through it, but he had eventually managed. He thought it was an unusually high-strung stance to take on bikes. Surely folks would come back and _get_ their bikes if they left them there? Unless of course it was some drunkard who had nicked a bike and ditched it, in which case, would the bike not be better off being handed in to the police rather than just whisked off by some anal orderly to be melted into soda tins?   
"I know those horrid, little vermin are in there," Arpee sneered, peering around Crowley towards the backroom. "They know what they've done! If they don't come out and clear up their mess, I shall be having words with their parents!"  
Crowley took a long drag of his ciggy.   
"You managed to clamber over them just fine," he said casually. "Bit ov'exercise never did no harm." He nodded at the dachshund scuttling about Arpee's feet. "Even Nubbins there managed without getting tangled in the spokes. Besides... Strikes me that some of those parents have enough problems as it is..." he added.    
Arpee bristled, exactly as Crowley had expected him to, but he could have sworn that the old man's ear went ever so slightly redder.  
"Get it seen to!" he snipped, wafting furiously at the plume of smoke that formed as Crowley slowly exhaled.   
"Something 'round 'ere could use a good seeing to, that's for damn sure..." Crowley muttered under his breath, very purposely loud enough for Arpee to hear.   
"At once!"  
Crowley rolled his eyes as the old man stormed off, dragging the dog along, with a distinct feeling of embarrassment about him. After stomping out his cigarette on the front step, he swaggered back to the backroom. Aziraphale had perched himself on the topmost back step, fag in hand and the kids were still circling Anathema and her chips like vultures. Even Grubby seemed to have cheered up a bit. He had managed to dribble lemonade down his front, it seemed.  
"What did he want?" Adam asked  
"He wanted you lot's bikes off the pavement," Crowley said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.   
The kids moaned.  
"Do we have to?" Adam asked. "This was nice."  
"He'll be on your father's case if you don't," Aziraphale admonished. "Lord knows the poor man doesn't deserve the flack he gets for bringing you into this World, but that doesn't really stop Arpee, does it?"   
The children started out towards the front of the shop.  
"Go around," Crowley called tiredly.   
The kids grumbled and slowly startled filing down the back steps. As Adam passed Aziraphale, the blond held out an arm.  
"Adam... Where in the World are your shoes??"  
Crowley looked. Sure enough, the kid was barefooted.  
"They're on my luggage rack," Adam said. "I just got really warm and sweaty. I got these new boots from my aunt and uncle yesterday, you see, wellies, like, and the soles light up!" he explained excitedly. "It was my birthday yesterday," he added, to an uninterested Crowley.  
 _Don't even mention birthdays, kiddo...  
_ "They're really cool, actually," Speccy said.  
"And then I got that book from you," Adam continued. "About that cannon that shoots people into space. I was supposed to say thanks for that, by the way."  
There was a bit of an unheard record scratch moment between Crowley and Anathema as they looked at each other. Aziraphale clearly caught them and tutted as he stubbed out his smoke in his pocket ashtray.  
"Don't give me that!" he scoffed. "It's 'From the Earth to the Moon'! It's a Jules Verne classic!"  
"It was really good!" Adam said. "So we built our own space gun and played aliens and astronauts today. I was the alien, in my new boots. But they're for cold weather, so it got a bit hot after a while..."  
"You already finished it?" Aziraphale said with surprise.   
Adam nodded.  
"Yeah, spent the night reading. It was cool, even though they didn't really know much about the Moon in the sixteen hundreds."   
Aziraphale's mounting excitement dimmed visibly at the last remark. Only years and years of keeping it cool stopped Crowley from trembling with laughter.   
"Yeah, the seventeenth century was pretty wild," he said.  
"Did you read it?" Adam asked while his friends trailed towards the gate leading to the side street.  
"I don't read books," Crowley sniffed. "Least of all ancient ones form the fifteenth century."  
"Well, I'm thinking of writing a story about space," Adam said. "It'll probably be better than the cannon one, 'cos I'll actually know stuff about space travel and such. So you'll have to read that once it's published."  
"Adam! You wanna come watch 'Horrible Histories' at my house?" Pinkie called.  
The boy scuttled off before Crowley could give him any snippy replies.   
"Curse this Shakespeare bloke and his contemporaries and their silly space cannons," Anathema snickered, dustin greasy salt off her hands and closing up her empty styrofoam tray.  
Aziraphale looked somewhat miffed but a smile was fighting to break free in the corners of his mouth.   
"Gloomy old prat that he was," Crowley said. "I sure hope that Warner dude you're gifting to ten year-olds is a bit more cheerful about it all."  
" _Verne_ ," Aziraphale sighed. "And Shakespeare wrote plenty of jolly pieces too. It's not all Ophelia's madness monologue, you know."  
"I'll take your word for it," Crowley said.   
Anathema shot him a bit of a look.  
"Are you telling me you've never read anything from Shakespeare?" she asked. "I'd've thought you had him crammed down your throats from preschool over here."  
Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a bit of a look.   
"I wasn't big on doing my homework," Crowley deflected elegantly. "But some customer or other dragged me off to see one play or other of his... Guess he felt mighty classy about it, showing poor Eliza Doolittle some culture or whatever. That was definitely one of the gloomy ones..."  
Aziraphale could vividly imagine young Crowley, bored out of his mind, tied in the three separate knots in a red velvet seat. He immediately realised he was imagining Crowley had he had been in _that video_ , hair-wise and such, and felt his cheeks grow a bit warm.  
Anathema snorted derisively.   
"Why am I not surprised you don't remember which one?" she said, shaking her head as she got up from her seat.  
Aziraphale thought to himself that it was probably because Crowley had not bothered trying to spell his way through the title on the poster.   
"Are you leaving?" he asked, quite fine with that, really, since he and Crowley... well, they would need to have a very serious conversation about Crowley's _appalling_ behaviour earlier before the row in the street had distracted them - Crowley. Before the row had distracted _Crowley_. And saved Aziraphale. Yes...  
"Yep." Anathema stepped over Aziraphale's knees in a swoosh of skirts. "I just got a big box of books in that I need to prep for sale."  
"What sort of books?" Aziraphale inquired politely and hating himself for it since all he wanted, really, was for Anathema to _shoo_ so he and Crowley could... talk.  
"Meditation techniques," Anathema said.   
"Do normal - and I use that term loosely when addressing your clientele - people really still buy physical books?" Crowley asked, picking up on his bouquet where he had left off.   
"I buy books!" Aziraphale protested.   
Crowley pursed his lips as if to signal 'I said what I said'.   
The absolute _demon_...  
"I'd've thought they'd find that sort of thing a waste of poor... living, feeling trees or whatever..." he shrugged. "That they'd get audiobooks or some shit instead. 'No trees were harmed in the making of this self-help nonsense'..."  
"The feeling of holding a physical object in an increasingly digital world can be meditative in its own way," Anathema shot back. "Also, the books come with a gift card code to download the audiobook for free on the company's website," she then conceded. "And speaking of waste;" she continued. "You've actually learned what the paper and cardboard bin is for, I am impressed." She nodded at the overstuffed bin. "You're a bit over-enthusiastic, but I'm willing to let that slide for now."  
Crowley flipped two fingers in the air without looking up from his work, his other hand occupied by holding the knot on the string of the bouquet in place.   
Anathema returned the gesture before smiling sweetly at Aziraphale.   
"I'll be off then. If you're not doing anything else, maybe see if you can cheer up the Grinch over there. Seems like Christmas is still scheduled to come early. His aura if all over the place, you've no idea. Worse than normal."  
She vanished into her own shop while Crowley rolled his eyes.   
Aziraphale got up and carefully dusted off the back of his trousers.  
"Need a hand with that?" Crowley offered smoothly. The bouquet lay finished on the workbench and the redhead was now busy striking a pose against the table instead.  
Aziraphale snorted.   
"Are you still upset about your birthday?" he asked.   
Crowley sagged where he stood.  
"I'm not upset, I'm pissy, that's different," he said dismissively. He frowned. "You still haven't told anyone, right?" he asked sharply.   
Aziraphale held up his hands.  
"On my word, I have not."  
Crowley hummed.   
"So she's -" He nodded towards the wall between his and Anathema's shop. "not planning anything cutesy for tomorrow?"  
Aziraphale blinked.   
Oh, dear. Oh, bother...  
"T-tomorrow?" It was _tomorrow_. He could have sworn Crowley's birthday on the 23rd, not the 22nd?! As far as he knew Anathema was blissfully unaware of what Crowley would undoubtably  
call the 'impending disaster' and thusly had nothing planned, neither for the 22nd _or_ the 23rd, but Aziraphale had! "No," he said quickly. "no, I don't see why she would have."  
Crowley quirked a brow. It was a slow movement, one side of his face stretching and the other bunching up, like ice moving about on the sea. Then his head followed through into the movement, tilting dangerously.   
"Are you sure about that?" he asked.   
Aziraphale watched the lanky ginger stalk closer.  
" _Quite_ certain," he said adamantly.   
Crowley cornered him up against the backdoor.   
"Really?" he asked lowly.   
"You asked me not to tell anyone, so I haven't," Aziraphale sniffed, slightly affrontedly, even though being this close with Crowley made feeling any level of affronted somewhat difficult.  
"Good," Crowley muttered darkly. "I hate surprises."  
This was a genuinely surprising statement, in Aziraphale's opinion, both because Crowley's somewhat chaotic and multifaceted personality made him a walking surprise himself, really, and because Aziraphale had never quite fathomed how on Earth people managed to dislike a pleasant surprise. What could possibly be better than fifteen people you liked sneaking into your house and jumping out from behind the sofa when you turned on the lights? He had nearly had a heart attack on his fortieth birthday, when he had entered the main room of his flat at the rectory, to be greeted by friends and neighbours, including then-toddler Adam who had thrown a fistful of confetti straight Aziraphale's freshly brewed cup of tea. It had been so immensely sweet of them all to bother, he had thought, getting up before seven to catch him early.   
Perhaps Crowley was simply in denial? No one he actually cared about had ever bothered giving him a nice surprise and now he was just telling himself that he would not care for it anyway... The same way he seemed so dismissive of Shakespeare, when surely Crowley of all people would enjoy a story about a group people running all over the place, drugged-out and playing footsie with all the wrong people because some fairy could not help misbehaving.   
Sour grapes could indeed be very sour, Aziraphale thought. He felt a bit saddened thinking of all the wonderful stories Crowley missed out on in their original form because he never read - even if Aziraphale could understand that the struggle of it would quite ruin the enjoyment. He had, after all, endured many a year's worth of PE lessons, so he could empathise...  
But not too much. He had decided he would be doing a little something to mark the day - which was _tomorrow,_ not in two days like he had thought - so sod empathy, Crowley was getting surprised. And Aziraphale had just realised _how_.  
"S-shouldn't you be... working? Aziraphale asked.   
Crowley made a little noise.  
"Should I?" he asked, lips barely moving, except from forward, closer to Aziraphale's.  
 _Yes, you should, so I can go and get you a damned present, because I'm an idiot..!  
_ Aziraphale thought of suggesting that he himself should perhaps be leaving and was about to announce his departure - and mentally preparing himself to struggle _quite_ valiantly against the barrage of protestations that would _no doubt_ elicit from Crowley - when his phone rang, somewhere deep his inner pocket. A bit disappointed - and feeling rather a bit pressed for time, all of a sudden - he fished it out.  
"Crikey, it's the hospice."  
Crowley sighed. His face had been roughly an inch from Aziraphale's.   
"How many old and dying Catholics are there in England and do they _all_ live in your parish??" he groaned.  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue and answered the phone.  
"Father A speaking."   
Crowley opened the backdoor with a defeated look on his face. Aziraphale smiled apologetically. In twenty-four hours time, Crowley would most likely be a lot less disappointed to be seeing the back of him, he thought. He was about to hurry back to the rectory to change into something more appropriate for the occasion than the blue and beige argyle cardigan he was currently wearing, when something caught his eye. The corner of one of Crowley's many, secret 'old things to be got rid of'. It was poking out from underneath the half-open lid of the paper bin, showcasing a tan, knuckly knee. Aziraphale shot a quick look up at the backdoor to the shops. From inside the flower shop, music started playing, muffled by the closed door. Aziraphale was unsure what on Earth possessed him, but he quickly lifted up the lid and pulled on the page. A whole host of other pages tagged along, all of them connected at one end with a spiral spine. Aziraphale quickly folded up the calendar without looking any further into it and quickly pulled out a spare tote bag he had been keeping in his pocket, shoving his loot in there before hurrying off. He wanted to know what Crowley was trying to be rid of, but first he had a few things he needed to attend to...

"Oi!"   
Aziraphale froze. He had just returned from the hospice after what could only be described as one of the most boring death bed confessions he had yet endured, by a fellow who was nowhere _near_ dying yet and mainly felt sorry for himself, and had changed into something that smelled less like sanitizer and people with failing vital organs and was now headed for his car. He had planned on heading out on Tuesday afternoon after work to get a nice of bottle of red for Crowley - a gift which he, after some deliberation, had decided was not too overly personal but still offered the opportunity to be tailored to the redhead's tastes. Now he would have to go out hunting _immediately_. And his preferred wine store in Oxford would be closed by the time he got there, thanks to that utterly pointless trip to the hospice.  
And now it seemed like Crowley had emerged out of thin air, presumably to continue their _talk_ from earlier which had been so inconveniently interrupted and frankly Aziraphale _did not have the time right now..!  
_ _Oh, bother...  
_ "Crowley! Fancy seeing you here..." Aziraphale managed with a big smile.  
Crowley swaggered across the yard, thumbs in his pockets.  
"How was the hospice?"  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Don't ask," he tutted.   
Crowley quirked a brow but did as he was told. Good little menace.  
"Going somewhere?" he asked instead, resting one elbow on the roof of Aziraphale's car.  
Aziraphale looked down at the plainly visible car key in his hand.  
"I, uh... I suppose I must be."   
_Great. Now you sound actually senile, marvellous...  
_ Crowley clearly agreed with that sentiment.  
"Eh... A'ight," he said slowly. "Fooor... what?" he prompted. "Not more work? You're not dressed for it."  
 _Say yes. Just say yes, he'll be too bored to ask any further, surely.  
_ "No, I'm not really, am I..?" Aziraphale's stupid mouth offered, his grin growing strained.   
Crowley was beginning to look concerned.  
"So where're ya off to then?" he asked in a tone that suggested he was unsure if Aziraphale was in a fit state to drive.  
 _Don't say Oxford...  
_ "Just popping into Oxford."  
 _For crying out loud...  
_ Crowley's interested perked up slightly.  
"Oh? For a meal or..?"  
Aziraphale's eyelid twitched ever so slightly while his smile was beginning to require enough physical effort to count as exercise.   
"Yesss..? Yes. I might - ahem - I might go for something to nibble, yes..."  
Not untrue. By the time all was in order it would be a bit late. He might grab a nice sandwich on the way back for his dinner.  
"Fancy company?" Crowley offered casually. "We could take the Bentley. Shortens the travel time... And looks a helluva lot cuter than whatever you call that old heap," he said, nodding his  
head at Aziraphale's worn-down car.  
"No!" _Jolly fine, Aziraphale, you are about as covert as a pink elephant._ Aziraphale pulled his head into his collar and pursed his lips, awkwardly avoiding Crowley's gaze. "I mean - no, no it's just a quick... I mean, uh, I... wouldn't want to... take up your time..." He reached for the hand of the car door, ripped the door open and practically threw himself in. "I have to go. Can't dawdle," he announced to Crowley.  
"Are you alright??" Crowley asked, lip curled up in confusion and his brows just about ready to fly off his forehead all together.   
"Certainly!" Aziraphale said with emphasis. "But now I must go!" he added hastily, pulling the car door closed and cramming the car keys into the ignition as fast as he could before taking off while buckling his seatbelt. He almost forgot to use the blinkers as he left the yard - almost. He was halfway to Oxford before he was quite finished cringing at himself. By the halfway mark, he instead began considering if maybe a bottle of wine was a little too easy... Crowley was his friend! And disliked birthdays. Would a bottle of wine be rubbing salt in the wound by the recognising the day but not actually putting enough effort in? All the fuss but no real payoff?   
Whiskey would perhaps be easier. It had a little more... panache, in a way. It was also slightly pricier and while Aziraphale loathed the concept of tying the worth of gift to its monetary value, spending more marigolds did somewhat signal appreciation for the person. You were hardly likely to dole out your savings on someone you disliked.  
What sort of whiskey would Crowley like? He drank Aziraphale's whiskey but since that was what was all that was available at Aziraphale's house, that was hardly telling... Besides, the nice wine and liquor store would _still_ be closed by the time he got there!   
What would be open by now..?  
If only Aziraphale had planned this better. Perhaps if he had had more time, he could have gotten Crowley something on the internet, if all else had failed. The internet was never closed and it had all sorts of stuff! Aziraphale thoroughly disliked shopping on the internet, greatly preferring to have a product in hand for inspection before making a purchase, but had nonetheless been dragged through the motions of it by Deidre who had taught him to restock on cheap communion wafers from a website... So far that had been his only venture into such activities, but given the circumstances...   
_Do normal people really still buy physical books?  
_ 'Normal people'. Aziraphale scoffed. How dare! Crowley had books too at his house! With nice photographs and such... Although, who knew old long he had had those? Aziraphale had not exactly looked at publishing dates... They might be 'old crap' that the redhead was simply less keen to be rid of than that calendar Aziraphale had... fished out of the rubbish bin... Like a crazy person... He had not yet taken the time to have a closer look at it, having abandoned it in the tote bag, on the sofa, in his hurry to get to the hospice.   
What if it had personal stuff jutted down in it that Crowley wanted to be rid of? His stepson's birthday, or such? Could that be why Crowley wanted to be rid of it? Painful memories? Did he miss his picture-perfect family life with his beautiful wife and her adorable boy?  
Or perhaps the calendar had simply been a gift from some other... interest, who had plotted in their own birthday and Valentine's day and their anniversary with Crowley and now Crowley  
wanted to be rid of the reminder...   
Aziraphale was most certainly _not_ seething in his seat. Absolutely not. Never! Why would he be agitated by some former squeeze of Crowley's? What a ridiculous notion! He was merely irritated with himself that all he could think of getting Crowley for his birthday was books, when the redhead had, just a few hours ago, scoffed at the very concept of physical books, let alone reading them. And as much as Aziraphale was certain 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' would be just the thing for Crowley, offering to read out loud to the man did seem a bit -  
 _The books come with a gift card code to download the audiobook...  
_ Aziraphale's mind came to a halt, at the same time as he had to stop for a red light.   
Oho...  
But where did one go to buy such a thing? And how and -   
Big shop. He would need a big shop, somewhere that sold all manners of things. Somewhere that would be open at this hour too...

Half an hour later, Aziraphale was badgering some poor, young lady behind the kiosk counter at the largest Tesco the city of Oxford had to offer. They had been his best bet since Harrod's London had been rather too far away, unfortunately and he was not quite in need of an elephant, despite the seeming enormity of his task. He had been blessedly relieved when the young woman perked up at his request and immediately gave several possible solutions. She had even offered to hold onto the gift card while Aziraphale popped into the actual store and found a suitable birthday card, which should only take five minutes, queueing included.   
It was taking far longer. The selection had been decent, but when confronted with the many numbers in bright, cheerful colours, Aziraphale's mind had blanked. Again.   
Was it 45 that Crowley would be tomorrow? Or was he already 45?? What had his date of birth been again? Aziraphale thought. There, in the middle of the store aisle, to the tune of some random, unimportant song on a distant radio, Aziraphale's brain seemed to have no idea how to perform basic... brainial functions, such as _remembering_. What number had been on that license??  
Two years, Aziraphale decided with himself after a minute. Crowley had been two years younger than him... Right? It felt sort of right, to his mind, but then again, so had 23rd August... Aziraphale chewed on his lip, spinning and spinning a 'Happy 45' card in his hands before putting it back with a huff. Oh, this was ridiculous!   
He shot a look at a card that simply had '37' take up the entire front of it. Crowley _did_ always claim to be 36. So 37 would be the next, obvious step. Aziraphale had almost reached for it, when another option caught his eye.   
It was rude. It was cruel. It could technically be construed as a compliment to how youthful Crowley looked.   
It was everything the ginger menace would have dragged someone else through and snickered about it too.   
Aziraphale's smile was decidedly warm and friendly and not the least bit mischievous as he retrieved his purchase from the helpful, young lady at the kiosk.

Crowley had finished his stupid flower order and had gone home to flop down on the sofa with a bowl of noodles and 'Golden Girls' on the telly. He had just popped his feet on the coffee table when a it sounded an awful lot like someone parked their car in his driveway. Then there was a knock on the door.  
"Crowley?"  
Crowley somehow, miraculously, managed to not get noodles everywhere as he nearly threw his bowl down on the table and rushed to the door, which he ripped open before immediately striking a pose against the doorframe.   
"Good evening, Angel."  
_Maybe not quite that sultry_ _, Crowley...  
_ Crowley cleared his throat, forcing his voice back to its normal range rather than a full octave deeper.   
"Can I help?"   
_What do you want at this hour? At my house? Would you like to come in, tell me all about it? Take a seat, I'll get us wine, this must be very important, I'm all ears... and hands, possibly, but if you minded, why would you be here in the first -   
_"I just came to drop off... something for you..."  
Aziraphale held out a small box roughly the size of a deck of cards, wrapped in tartan gift wrapping, and a plain white envelope, with a small smile.   
Crowley stared at the box.   
"For me?"  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Quite. On the occasion of... uh. Well. No reason to get into that," he said brightly, albeit a bit nervously.   
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"You didn't have to," he said plainly.   
Aziraphale nodded again.  
"I'm well aware..." he said timidly. He looked ready to be scolded.  
"I'd really rather have preferred if you hadn't," Crowley continued.   
Aziraphale clicked his tongue, hand still held out, offering up his small, forbidden token of recognition.  
"I... I know..." he said. "I just... couldn't _not_..."  
Crowley sighed. He did not do birthdays. But of course Aziraphale, of all the people, would have an absolute compulsion towards them. Crowley could not even work himself up to be annoyed about it, it was like being mad at water for being wet.   
"I bet you couldn't," he sighed. He took the gift and card. "Wanna come in while I open it?"  
Aziraphale's expression went from hesitantly hopeful to affronted.  
"But it's not until tomorrow!" he said.   
Alright, _now_ Crowley could find it in him to be some form of irritated. But still, just his normal sort of 'how are you even real, you tartan weirdo??' that he often got when being around Aziraphale, simply because the man was so bloody... Aziraphale.   
"A'ight," he said. "Then don't come in while I open it."  
Aziraphale put on a pout that could surely only be deliberate. No grown man closer to 50 than anything else just automatically pouted that hard, surely. It was completely undignified. And so _bloody cute_ Crowley wanted to mush that stupid, blue-eyed face between his hands..!  
"But... it's not until tomorrow..!" Aziraphale said, disbelievingly. "You can't just open it now!"  
Crowley was many things, but what he was not was one to miss an opening when he saw one. In several ways, including one that would surely have prompted an exasperated huff from Aziraphale.   
"Well... Can't make any promises," Crowley said smoothly. "Maybe you'd best come in... keep an eye on me. Make sure I don't misbehave... towards my present, anyway..." he finished in a purr.  
Aziraphale flushed ever so slightly, but his offended pout remained.  
"I will not," he said firmly. "You'll just have to figure out how to behave like an adult, quite on your own," he said.   
Crowley was disappointed, in a sense, but being in doghouse because he had threatened to open a present before time was... it was funny. And getting scolded for rubbing Aziraphale up the  
wrong way over stupid crap was just weirdly... hot.   
What even was Crowley's life anymore?  
"I'm going to go now," Aziraphale said primly, smoothing down his cardigan. "I've had a very long day and I'm going to go home and have an early night." He was about to turn and leave when he paused and nodded his head at the small box in Crowley's hand. "It's, uh... well, it's a bit plain, I suppose, but there's a point to it, I swear."  
Crowley would die with the certainty that there always was a point to whatever Aziraphale was up to, so any such doubt had never even crossed his mind.  
"Yeah, right, keep teasing me about it," he said. "It's almost like you _want_ me on my worst behaviour," he cooed.  
Aziraphale turned beet red. Any potential alternative meanings were clearly not lost on him.  
"I absolutely do not!" he objected, scandalised. "I'm going to go now," he repeated. "Goodnight, Crowley."  
Crowley hummed.  
"Goodnight, Angel. Sleep tight, while I interfere with my present..."  
Aziraphale glared daggers at him as he got into his car and slammed the door.  
It was absolutely delightful.

Uplifted by having annoyed Aziraphale, Crowley spent the rest of his evening circling his present on the table and hating himself for it all the while. He was a grown man and he _hated_ birthdays! He should not be this excited about a damn birthday present! Or concerned about "opening it before the big day". Why the fuck should he care? This was _his_ house! He could do whatever he liked!  
But the present still sat dutifully unopened, as did the accompanying card, because the walls might have ears and Aziraphale might somehow, some way, find out and be disappointed and... well.   
In the end Crowley huffed with annoyance and went to bed, decidedly not thinking about the fact that he cared about pleasing Aziraphale by not cheating and opening his present. Sure Aziraphale was a prime snog but that _had to be it_. Anything else was distinctly _not_ something Crowley did, not for anyone. Nope. Crowley did not 'aim to please'.

_Tuesday, 22nd August_

Aziraphale's phone rang. Somehow he knew who it would be before even looking and he was not disappointed. He was left no time to so much as open his mouth after hitting the green button before a furious voice exploded from the speaker.  
"You bastard!"  
Aziraphale slapped a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter and barely managed to choke out a sentence in response.  
"How so?" he trilled.  
" _Congratulations on the 63 years?!_ "  
Aziraphale made an ever-so-pleased noise.  
"You don't like the nice card I got you then?" he asked innocently, bubbling with laughter.  
Crowley tried to start five different sentences before giving up and just growling loudly instead.  
Aziraphale chuckled and munched on his toast, happily chewing a few times before realising he would usually never eat while on the phone with anyone. Crowley did not appear to mind. Rather it seemed he relished the chance to let out some steam, simmering with outrage as he was.  
"And then you just sit there, chewing away and laughing at me after spitting in my face..!" he heckled, causing Aziraphale to exhale hard through his nose, leaving a large number of crumbs stuck up there. He quickly dropped the phone on the table before he took Crowley's hearing completely out with his coughing fit.  
"Oh shit, did I kill you?" Crowley's voice rang through the phone while Aziraphale choked and wheezed into a napkin.  
"Crumbs. In my nose," he managed, eyes watering, after a long minute.  
Crowley was sympathetic for about a second and a half before his gloating began;  
"S'what you get for being so horrible to me on my birthday," he snickered.  
Aziraphale blew his nose hard and giggled back, picking the phone up again.  
"And what do you get for being horrible to everyone else on any odd day at all?" he asked, wiping his nose on his napkin.  
"Rude birthday cards, apparently," Crowley groused. After a moment he cleared his throat. "Anyway... Thanks for the gift card,"  
"I thought you could use it for audiobooks," Aziraphale said eagerly, glad to have had the subject changed and wanting to further explain his otherwise somewhat plain gift. "Since you don't read. There are so many stories out there and you're really missing out, you know."   
Silence. Total silence. Oh, dear. Had this been a faux pas? Had it been a bit superior of him? A tad presumptuous? Who said Crowley was interested in books at all, dyslexic or not. "But I mean, I can't tell you what to do with it, really," he said quickly. "It's good for a bunch of things from what I understood from the young lady at the store..." he trailed off.   
Crowley remained silent for another long moment during which Aziraphale wished he had choked on his toast after all.  
"That's cool," Crowley finally said.   
'Cool'. What exactly did that mean in this context? Was Crowley trying to sound appreciative while really he thought the idea was boring? Or... lame? Nerdy. Posh and pretentious and stupid and rude...  
"Well, I'm... glad you think so," Aziraphale said unsurely. So much for that brilliant plan. _Nice work, Aziraphale...  
_ "I, uh... yeah. Yeah." Crowley muttered. He sounded a million miles away. Probably bored with the conversation.   
"I should be going," Aziraphale said. "Things to do... souls to save, sinners to forgive..." he tried his hand at a light chuckle but it just sounded... odd.   
"Uhm. Right. Yep. You go do your thing," Crowley said distractedly. Probably eager to be done with their awkward chat. "I should be getting on too... So... Yeah."  
 _Doot doot doot  
_ Not even a "bye".  
Aziraphale spent a good few minutes staring listlessly at the rest of his toast, his stomach gone all hollow. Crowley had not liked his gift. He probably thought it was overbearing and condescending.   
" _Since you don't read_ "... Aziraphale muttered under his breath, gathering up his plate and puttering off to the kitchen to throw out his now cold toast. He cringed at his own stupidity. What a thing to say to someone! Someone dyslexic too! Crowley was a clever sort, he knew about... digital stuff. Surely he was well-aware of audiobooks. If he had wanted them he could have procured some himself.   
Aziraphale would have to apologise. And properly. Something well-thought out.   
Why on Earth had he even gotten himself tangled in all of this? Crowley had not wanted a fuss made about his birthday, had wanted the occasion left forgotten to slip by unnoticed and then Aziraphale had gone and for some unfathomable reason stuck his nose right in the ants' nest and now look at it..!   
Perhaps Crowley had been right... It would have been far easier if Aziraphale had just ignored his birthday.   
It would also have spared him the odd, shapeless, undefinable, lump in his stomach, a sort of guilty fog which floated and drifted around in a tangled mess of _why_ this had all been so important to him in the first place...  
As he walked across the yard towards his office, he tried to tell himself he was just trying to look after a friend...   
It felt like a lie. A lie that smelled like apple shampoo...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhhhi guys, sorry I'm late. I have exams REALLY FUCKING SOON, so like... I'm a bit stressed.  
> I am, however, still very much writing, don't you worry. This isn't dead, I'm just a kid and life is a nightmare~...
> 
> Anyway. Place your bets. Did Crowley like his present? And why is he throwing out a calendar?
> 
> Next ch is gonna be filthy, just to try and keep you lot hooked lol


	29. Chapter 29

_Thursday, 24th August_

Aziraphale continued to be the victim of the occasional pang of cringing guilt and embarrassment all the way through to Thursday night's poker game. When he arrived, Crowley and Anathema were at the usual table already. Crowley's hair was hanging loose and a spindly hand was writhing its way through a lock of it, braiding it while Anathema talked.   
Aziraphale took a deep breath and quickly seated himself.   
"Good evening, folks," he said chipperly, carefully aiming his smile somewhere in the space between their heads, not meeting Crowley's gaze but technically not meeting Anathema's either, which made it all fair and even. None included, none forgotten. He knew he would have to apologise to Crowley at some point, make it understood that he had simply been too foolish to realise how condescending his fight had been, but for the other man's sense of pride, he would rather not do so in front of Anathema. He was unsure if she knew about Crowley's dyslexia at all, be it because it had simply not come up between them or because it was not something Crowley told just anyone.   
Which, Aziraphale supposed, beckoned the question why he had told Aziraphale in he first place, but perhaps it had been some sort of act of defiance... After all the grief the priests at St Jude's had given him for it, perhaps he had wanted to see if he could rub Aziraphale up the wrong way too. It had been quite an early stage of their acquaintance back then.   
'Back then'... Just about four months ago. Goodness, was that already 'back then'? It felt like he had known Crowley for years. He could almost believe he had always known the redhead, had it not been for the bone deep certainty that he had never before been friendly with someone as conventionally cool as Crowley.   
"Hi." Crowley abandoned his braiding and instead drummed his fingers leisurely against the tabletop. "How was Tuesday, then?"   
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"It... was what it was," he said solemnly. "You know how it is... Can't discuss the details..." he trailed off.   
He had _potentially_ been too embarrassed to face Crowley and had _maybe_ faked taking confession from someone extraordinarily burdened by a guilty conscience to avoid being at the office when the flowers were delivered. He had even asked Deidre to _lie_ for him which he felt a smidge bad about too, even if it had just been a little white thing... The confession thing was only a suggestion he had thrown at her when begging her to tell Crowley he was busy and being asked what sort of excuse he had in mind. Deidre had been absolutely free to simply say that Aziraphale was busy and leave it at that, after all, it was hardly Crowley's business to poke his nose into every single bullet point in Aziraphale's schedule for any given day..! And Aziraphale had, in fact, been _very_ busy... hiding. In the confessional, too, actually. And there were perhaps one of two things he could benefit from talking to the Lord about, so... it was only a little white thing, that lie.   
"Did the hairdresser dump her husband yet?" Crowley asked, leaning back in his seat.   
Aziraphale shook his head, watching his folded hands on the table.  
"Not as far as I'm aware, no."  
"Are they yours?" Crowley asked.  
Aziraphale shook his head again.  
"They're not, no, but Brian and Adam are friends, so Deidre and Laura talk often, so... I'm kept up-to-speed," he explained.   
"'Cos snooping into the lives of your congregants isn't enough, you gotta keep an eye on the Anglicans too?" Crowley teased.  
Or was it a tease? Was it a subtle hint at Aziraphale presumptuously deciding that what Crowley needed was more books?   
"I just worry about Brian," Aziraphale said. "Deidre says Adam has practically declared martial law. They all slept over at his house Monday night, then Pepper's Tuesday, then Arthur and Norman were goaded into taking them camping Wednesday evening..." He clicked his tongue. "Arthur's back is completely shot, he can barely make the stairs at home."  
"How's the kid feeling?" Crowley asked.  
"Bummed out, I'd expect?" Aziraphale offered. "I'd imagine he'd be having more fun if he knew they weren't all doing it because his parents were at each other's throats in the middle of the main street."  
"His aura is a mess," Anathema said sagely. "Way dark blue. Poor boy."  
The urge to watch Crowley's unusually lively brows overpowered Aziraphale's embarrassment. He was rewarded for watching with an extraordinary display of the ranges of human expression while Crowley clearly tried to come up with a response beyond wordlessly screaming his frustration out. However, before he had a chance to give up and actually get to screaming, Marjorie turned up.  
"Hello, my doves," she cooed. "Anyone fancy a drink? My treat."  
Crowley's face mellowed out.  
"Good customer?" he asked. "Or not-so-good customer?"  
"Oh no, excellent customer," Marjorie said briskly. "A very discerning gentleman who comes in once in a while for a spot of recreational discipline."   
"Ah." Crowley nodded. "Those we like."  
"We simply _adore_ them," Marjorie said in a terse tone that was not quite sarcasm but not exactly truly sincere either.  
"Polite, them ones," Crowley said. "Always say 'please' and 'thank you'."  
Marjorie pulled out her worn cards and shuffled them.   
"Don't they ever," she cooed. "And exactly when you want it, too."  
Crowley cackled.  
"Nothing like the sound of a crisp twenty note every time you crack the whip," he snickered.   
Anathema looked out of her depth but nonetheless amused by the conversation. Aziraphale had known Marjorie for long enough to know about the services she offered and indeed seemed to be sought out for, every now and again, and he was as such not exactly shocked by the topic, but somehow the idea of Crowley... It was just not quite _funny,_ was it now?  
"I could murder a large G&T," he admitted.   
"Mine's a Cape Cod," Marjorie said. "One of you lovelies pop along and get us set up."  
"Thank you for volunteering, 'Nathema," Crowley said languidly. "Mine's a whiskey."  
"Make it a double," Marjorie said, winking at Crowley.   
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Crowley challenged, leaning forward on his elbows and resting his head in his hand.  
"I'm trying to get some tongues loosened," Marjorie said, ceasing her card-shuffling and leaning forwards as well. "What's all this business with Laura down at the hairdressers? I was getting my roots touched up just today and she's in a bit of a state..."

By the time Anathema was back at the table with a tray of drinks and a bowl of chips, which explained what had taken her so damn long, Marjie had been brought up to speed on the whole argument situation. She seemed very concerned about Grubby and was relieved to hear that his friends were working hard to keep him too busy to worry. The whole mood had gotten a bit sombre, to the point where even Aziraphale had seemingly forgotten about whatever had been bugging him. Crowley would have to ask him later...  
"Do you know," Aziraphale said as Anathema passed out drinks and sat down with her chips. "I realised something just now. There's four of us now."  
Silence fell over the table, less sombre and a lot more puzzled. In the end Marjie seemed to decide to take one for the team.  
"That's correct, ducks..?" she ventured.   
"So there are enough of us for a rubber of bridge!" Aziraphale beamed at her.  
Marjie lit up. Anathema looked uncertain if that was a good thing or not. Crowley felt perfectly certain what he thought of the idea.   
"You are joking, right?" he asked. "I know you're the ghost of a posh, Victorian bloke, but normal mortals don't play Bridge these days."  
Aziraphale's face went surprisingly pink.   
"It was only a suggestion..." he said primly.  
"I think it's brilliant!" Marjie said. "I haven't played in ages!"  
"Doesn't bridge have a million rules..?" Anathema asked.   
"You'll learn!" Marjie promised enthusiastically. "Come on, you two," she said, knocking the toe of her boot against Crowley's under the table. "What're you worried about, not looking cool?"   
_Oh, you little -! You do know men, don't you?  
_ "I make things look cool by doing them," Crowley shot back.  
"Good," Marjie said, irritatingly triumphantly. "I'll deal then, shall I?"

"So, what do we think, people?" Aziraphale asked gleefully, jutting down the score in his little notebook. "Time for one more game?"  
"I think," Crowley said knocking back the rest of his second whiskey. "that my team would have our arses handed to us a lot less gravely if we actually understood the rules properly."  
He and Anathema had eaten Marjie and Aziraphale's _dust_. Marjie had very clearly brushed up on her Bridge skills and Aziraphale appeared to have written the fucking rulebook.   
Marjie shuffled the cards with the air of a Wild West poker ace.   
"Right," she said, slamming the deck down in the middle of the table. "One last game, swap partners. Boys versus girls. Switch seat you two," she said waving her hand between Aziraphale and Anathema.   
Crowley snorted as Aziraphale took the seat across from him and made a note of the mixed-up teams in his score record.   
"Forgive me, Father, for the caning we're about to receive," Crowley said dryly while Marjie began dealing.  
"Don't worry, you'll never be a bad at Bridge as Newton Pulsifer is at everything," Anathema groaned.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Watch out, people, she's had a drink, the truth will out," he snickered dryly.   
"I don't know where you were this afternoon," Anathema said. "But I was treated to the spectacle of the guy hiding in the delivery van 'cos _yet_ another computer customer came a-calling."  
"Oh, I was just inside, in the shop," Crowley said calmly.   
"He couldn't get the backdoor open," Anathema said, frowning.   
"That's because I locked it," Crowley said lightly, moving a few cards around in his hand.   
Marjie tutted while Anathema cackled like the witch she thought she was.  
"You be good to poor Newton now," Marjie admonished. "He's a good lad."  
"Good at what, exactly?" Anathema said. "Once the customer had given up on finding him and left, he got stuck in the van for half an hour."  
"You never know," Marjie said. "Tall fellow like him. Makes you wonder if he's got a hidden talent..."  
Crowley laughed.   
Anathema stuck her nose in the air.  
"I sincerely doubt it," she said pointedly.   
Crowley stopped laughing.  
"That sounded very certain," he noted, leaning towards Anathema on one elbow.  
Marjie howled with delight.  
"Really, pet, I am disappointed in you! Keeping that sort of gossip to yourself -!"  
Anathema pulled a face while everyone else laughed, even Aziraphale who snickered into his cards, eyes completely scrunched up and his grin so wide it nearly split his face in half, all laugh lines and sunshine.   
_What were you upset about, earlier, Angel?  
_ "Newton Pulsifer has been getting absolutely nothing right _or_ wrong with me," Anathema seethed.   
"He got something right this afternoon," Crowley said, figuring that if picking on Anathema was cheering up Aziraphale, the young woman would just have to fucking endure it.   
Everyone looked genuinely surprised.   
"He took his jumper off while loading the van," Crowley continued.   
"You mean to tell me he managed to take off an article of clothing without maiming himself?" Anathema said surly. "I sincerely doubt it."  
"Was it a very unfortunate jumper?" Marjie asked. "His sense of dress is... well..."  
"That's the first thing," Crowley said indignantly. "the bloody thing made wanna gouge my eyes out. And secondly," he continued. "when I say he 'took off his jumper', I mean that he tottered about the yard for about fifteen minutes, his glasses fucked off to one side, his t-shirt ridden up and the jumper stuck around his head. So thank you for the view, Pembrooke."  
Marjie's eyes grew round while she cackled.  
"Oh, something finally went right for him, then?" she asked mirthfully.   
"Let's just say I'm almost considering getting some more odd jobs done around the house," Crowley sniffed dryly.   
"He'd only end up burning it down," Anathema scowled, downing her drink.   
"As long as I close the shutters over the windows, lock all entrances, park the Bentley somewhere else and don't allow him to play with matches..." Crowley trailed off while Marjie clicked her tongue chidingly. "Picture it;" he continued, waving a hand about. "I answer the door, dressed in nothing but a smile and one of those mesh robes with big, fluffy hems..."  
Marjie sobbed with laughter, dragging Crowley down with her. Even Anathema gave up on looking put-off and laughed despite a vaguely disturbed look in her eyes. Crowley peered over at Aziraphale, expecting the blond to be in a fit of pretending not to be grinning, thinking that maybe he could sneak in a little... look? An invitation? A hint that he could probably be persuaded to slip into something see-through and tacky for other reasons than scaring the tar out of Popeye...   
What Crowley found, however, was not Aziraphale doing a bad impression of someone _not_ laughing, but a very convincing impression of someone... sulking.   
The dark cloud from earlier was back - or rather; its huffy cousin.   
"Yes, thank you for that particular image, Crowley," the blond snipped, shooting Crowley the briefest glance, looking all kinds of rubbed up the wrong way before snapping his gaze away onto his hand of cards.   
Marjorie cleared her throat and pulled herself together.  
"Right. Back to what we're here for," she said, putting her hands together. "I believe dear Anathema and I were about to obliterate you boys."

The ladies team did win but _obliterate_ was a bit much as a descriptor. Crowley was a bit put out of whack by Aziraphale's surly face and completely cocked up the bidding but he luckily also had to play dummy in that round, so Aziraphale managed to save things for them both while sternly avoiding looking at Crowley as much as possible. They finished the game shortly after Reg had rung the bell and announced the last call. Aziraphale quickly recorded the score and slipped his jacket on. Marjorie and Anathema announced that Bridge was excellent and that these new teams worked much better and cast a quick vote - solely between themselves, blissfully unaware that Crowley and Aziraphale were paying them no mind - that the new configuration would be the standard from now on. Aziraphale hurriedly agreed and then excused himself.   
He scuttled down the street, bound for the rectory. He needed to pull himself together, he did. Needed... a moment alone, some quiet and contemplation. Perhaps he should pray the Rosaries once or twice. He needed... he needed to not be so bloody... _irritated_ \- not disappointed. _Never_ disappointed, oh no - that Crowley had apparently turned his gaze on young Newton Pulsifer. Even though it was a hopeless case, the boy was straight as an arrow. But then again, Aziraphale doubted the lad would be able to draw a straight arrow, so who knew, really?   
It was no wonder Crowley would be looking elsewhere, after that disastrous round of gift-giving... It was just as well too, _obviously_ , it was just... Crowley was free to do as he pleased, who whomever he pleased, but did he have to _flaunt it_ like that, right in front of Aziraphale - and everyone else, rendering Aziraphale's tongue completely tied, not so much as a single word of retort possible..!  
As Aziraphale walked, he cast a look over his shoulder, noting that Crowley was - thankfully - not following him. He could stay in the pub Then as he was just by the alleyway leading to the yard behind Crowley's and Anathema's shops, a hand suddenly grabbed him and yanked him into the dark, away from the faint orange light of the lamppost across the street.  
" _What in the -!_ "  
"Hey, shh, it's me!" an out-of-breath voice rasped.  
"What the Hell, Crowley?!" Aziraphale tore his arm out of Crowley's grasp. How in the World the ginger had caught up with him was a bloody mystery. "How did you do that??" Aziraphale hissed.   
"What did you get so mad for?" Crowley retorted, still struggling to breathe.   
Aziraphale huffed and made for the pavement once more.  
"I did not," he sniffed, but Crowley grabbed his arm again.   
"Did too," he pushed on. "What happened? One silly, little joke get you all that huffy?"  
"I just thought it was in poor taste is all," Aziraphale said dignifiedly, once again trying to free himself but Crowley held on this time and swung him around so they stood face to face in the dark, Aziraphale's back against the brick wall and Crowley looming over him.   
"I can only apologise," Crowley purred, pushing his dark glasses up into his hair.   
"And now you have," Aziraphale said pointedly. "Now will you stop grabbing me?"  
Crowley chuckled breathily and let go of his arm. Instead his hand crept up to Aziraphale's chin.  
"What's got you so upset, eh?" he asked his thumb stroking Aziraphale's jaw. "You weren't right earlier when you came in, whassa matter?"  
Aziraphale almost wanted to deny everything and send that stupid apology that he still owed Crowley to Coventry, but... he had been raised better than that. And Crowley's hand was terribly warm...  
"A-about your... I mean, the present I got you..." he started awkwardly, shooting a nervous look towards the street. Distantly a car could be heard turning onto a side street, but it did not pass the short alleyway.  
"Ah, yeah... That..." Crowley muttered. "I never thanked you for that, did I..?" he purred, inching closer to Aziraphale in the dark.   
He _knew_ he had not thanked Aziraphale. Not that Crowley was particularly concerned with manners when it came to birthday presents he had never in his life asked for, but... Aziraphale had wanted to share what he presumably considered the greatest experience ever, if the number of books he owed was anything to go by, and had even tried to accommodate Crowley's struggles on the matter and it had just... been a whole thing. After hanging up, Crowley had been lying silently on the sofa for at least half an hour, just staring at the boring, little plastic card as it sat between his fingers, and wondering about the odd opposites of the life. Like how a cucumber was the opposite of a tomato and Nutella was the opposite of peanut butter... and boring, little plastic gift cards were the opposite of getting your head dunked in a fishtank and nearly swallowing a gubby...  
"It completely slipped my mind," Crowley continued casually, ignoring the feeling of a new star being born in his stomach, contracting and expanding infinitely at the same time. "So, uh... thanks?"   
In the dark he could faint tell that Aziraphale as blinking owlishly up at him.   
"You... you don't have to thank me..." the blond mumbled.  
"So that's not what you were looking so snubbed for, earlier?" Crowley prodded.   
_Then what's wrong, Angel, come on, tell me...  
_ "I'm not looking _snubbed_ ," Aziraphale protested. "I was just on my way home and then you snuck up on me in the dark and, and - accosted me!" He folded his arms over his chest and pouted. "If I'm any sort of upset, it's because you gave me a bloody start, just now!"   
"Sorry..." Crowley purred. It was hard to take Aziraphale seriously when he was clearly being an untruthful, pouty, little shit. It was too bloody good. "How about a goodnight kiss...?"  
He heard - actually _heard_ \- Aziraphale swallow.   
"I was on my way home..." he said weakly, his words in stark contrast with the way his arms unfolded and fell to his sides.   
"All alone, in the dark?" Crowley muttered, inching closer still. "Seems risky..."  
Aziraphale sighed.   
"Yes, well..." Crowley felt, more than saw, the moment the blond's proverbial spine gave in. "What could possibly happen?"  
Crowley hummed darkly. He leaned down a helped himself to a quick smooch. Which then turned into another, not quite to quick smooch, and then another, until his arms were wound around Aziraphale's waist and Aziraphale's hands were fisted in the front of his shirt.  
Which was all well and good, but if Aziraphale had not been bothered by Crowley not thanking him, what _had_ been wrong before the poker-turned-Bridge game? It seemed that Aziraphale was as of yet unwilling to part with that information, but Crowley was loathe to just leave him to totter about, alone and upset at the rectory.  
There was also the more urgently interesting situation of Aziraphale fussing over Crowley joking about seducing Prickley, of course...  
Perhaps another... drink - yeah, drink, definitely _drink_ \- was in order? Just a drink and a chat... That was all...  
"Come back to mine..?" Crowley muttered against Aziraphale's bottom lip as they parted. "Strikes me I owe you an apology for all my bad manners... First the present and now this..." he suggested innocently.  
It was a terrible idea. Aziraphale _knew_ that. There was no way it could be a _good_ idea to go home with Crowley right now... But apparently Crowley had managed to kiss the ability to say 'no' clean off Aziraphale's lips.   
"Alright, but would you mind terribly if we took... a short-cut?"

About twenty minutes later, after stumbling down a footpath that most certainly served as neither a breezy nor shorter route to Crowley's cottage, Aziraphale was finally attempting to be rid of his jacket while Crowley blankly refused to unlock their lips.   
"Cro- mmph! Crow'ey... M'shoes..!"  
The upside to the path was that it went through a stretch of meadow that left you highly unlikely to be spotted by anyone. The downside was that you were unlikely to be spotted because the place was pitch black - so dark, in fact, that Crowley had even kept his dark glasses off for the duration of the walk - and that it was rather... rustic, which had left their shoes less than clean. As much as Crowley claimed that the robotic hoover needed feeding, Aziraphale thought it would be a bit of a mood killer if he dragged dirt all over the floor.   
Crowley reluctantly let go of Aziraphale, kicked off his own boots, then dove for Aziraphale's shoelaces.   
"There we go," he said briskly before grabbing Aziraphale by the front of his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss while backing him through the house.   
Aziraphale's brain felt a bit like it exploded inside his skull and his stomach felt like it was getting palpitations - something Aziraphale was somewhat unsure that it even could - when his back met with a hard surface which immediately gave way, allowing him to walk backwards into Crowley's bedroom.   
Crowley had invited him back. He had agreed, too, figuring that... well, it seemed like Crowley wanted to talk about something and if his friend was worried, it was hardly Aziraphale's place to refuse him, even if it was _frightfully_ ill-advised to go home with a man who on several previous occasions had shown little to no restraint when it came to his... physical preoccupation with Aziraphale. It was hardly Aziraphale's fault that he simply believed that people could improve...   
But _bedroom_. Aziraphale had as a maximum expected something similar to one of Crowley's earlier... minor missteps. Not... not an _upgrade_. It had not occurred to him that Crowley might -   
But here they were. Not on a sofa but in Crowley's bedroom, with Aziraphale's favourite waistcoat being unbuttoned while he himself was being pushed backwards onto a silk duvet casing and... Well, it sure did seem like Crowley might _very much_ , in fact -   
Aziraphale ought to call it all of. Put a stop to it. Speak up and refuse. But he _had_ tried that, had he not, more than once, and he had had so very little success with meaning - with _making Crowley see that he meant it_ , of course, and... well. If he was to be... ravished, he was hardly going to give the ginger menace the satisfaction of hearing him plead.  
In spite of _all those pleas_ that he was currently making up in his brain.  
Which was most certainly not simply spinning uselessly in his skull like a horseshoe on a peg while his hands were clamped around Crowley's face.  
In attempted self-defense.  
Obviously..!

Crowley could not remember being this excited about dragging a bloke home _ever_. This was bloody brilliant! Hiding out at his place, all the time in the World, just him and Aziraphale and another round of snogging and putting their hands down the front of each others trousers. He had considered taking things to the sofa, briefly, but had decided against it, figuring that something a little more spacious and comfortable was in order, since he was hoping to be able to draw things out a little longer than last time, pace things a little bit better, allow himself a little more time with Aziraphale completely melted and needy in his arms.   
Given the much increased level of privacy, they might even be able to get more clothes off this time too.   
Crowley hummed happily to himself against Aziraphale's lips while he pried the blond out of his waistcoat and ditched the garment and pushed its owner all the way onto his back.  
"Uh... C-crowley... Um..." Aziraphale protested weakly.   
"Ech? Right. Geh, shit, sorry." Crowley flopped over the edge of the bed, snatched the waistcoat up off the floor and instead tried to fling it as considerately as possible onto the chair in the corner. Then he returned for another snog, determined not to let his little slip-up ruin the mood. "There we go," he said reassuringly while wedging himself between Aziraphale's thighs. "My bad. All fixed. Terribly sorry."  
Aziraphale squirmed away from the kiss.  
"Yes, that's... nice," he said distractedly. "But I, eh... Well, I mean. If we are to..."  
"Shhhhh, you, no worries," Crowley muttered, nuzzling his nose against Aziraphale's. "I get it, Angel..." he whispered.   
Priest, sin, mistakes, could never happen again, tell no one, yadda-yadda. The pretense and the bullshit were a price well worth paying when Aziraphale smelled this good and his cock was digging so insistingly into Crowley's hip...  
"N-no, I mean yes, b-but... It's just..." Aziraphale stammered on while Crowley nibbled his way down his throat and undid his bowtie for better access.   
"I know, Angel," Crowley muttered huskily. "But I just can't help myself, can I? Incorrigible, 'member?"  
Aziraphale tutted then gave a thin, high-pitched whine as Crowley licked into the shell of his ear.   
_You make the prettiest noises... Almost as pretty as the faces you pull...  
_ "It's just that I've never -" Aziraphale continued, apparently very determined to say whatever it was he wanted to say, and Crowley not particularly interested in things Aziraphale 'had never' since he had _definitely_ had his hands on Crowley's cock before, so honestly, what could possibly, in that moment - "before... I-I told you... We - I mean, L-lindy and I never... So just, uhm... when..." He finished by nodding imploringly, as if he had just made a very valid point.   
_You and that other arsehole bloke never wha -   
_Crowley's entire being came to a screeching halt, with his tongue buried in Aziraphale's ear.   
Oh. _OH.   
_"Uhhh..."  
How Crowley managed to pull his tongue back into his mouth while his brain was also slowly dripping out his left ear, was a mystery that scientists would discuss for years to come. Was Aziraphale seriously suggesting -   
No. Nah nah nah, surely - not..? Or??  
"I mean, yeah, no, blch, you haven't..!" Crowley tried, pushing back at looking down at Aziraphale's wide eyes and beet-red face. "Echhh, yeah, I mean, that's a whole... thing. That... there _is_ , innit, but..."  
Aziraphale swallowed.  
"I just... thought I should..." He bit his lip and looked away, nerves written all over his face. "mention... it... again," he mumbled vaguely, eyes roaming the room. "Before..."  
 _If you're expecting me to fuck you, bringing up that you'd like me to fuck you is probably a good way to go about it, yeah...  
_ Crowley could also not remember the last time he had felt _overwhelmed_ by a guy offering a shag. It was just... a lot. It was - it was _Aziraphale_ , who had _never_ -   
"I mean... I can help you with that... if you'd like..." he purred, his eyes locked on Aziraphale's, even as they refused to meet his gaze.   
Aziraphale huffed and clicked his tongue, but one of his hands curled minutely into Crowley's shirt, holding on.   
Alright. Aziraphale had apparently decided to go on a bit of an adventure. Crowley could absolutely live with that. He knew the route well, too. There were several stops along the way, so he figured it was simply a matter of tagging along and seeing where things went.  
He snuck a hand up and fumbled a few of a Aziraphale's shirt buttons loose.   
"For a start, you're over-dressed," he said lowly before lowering his head for another kiss.

It took a good fifteen minutes - which Crowley only paid any mind because he would want to relish in the exact number of minutes he had managed to have Aziraphale all to himself, at a later stage - but in between kisses and wandering hands, Crowley managed to whittle the collective number of articles of clothing between them down to three - they were both still in their pants and Aziraphale had his vest on too. Crowley had just dropped back onto the mattress, kneeling between Aziraphale's feet, after dropping the blond's trousers off on the chair.   
And what a view he was treated to; big, happy, wet stain on the front of Aziraphale's ridiculous tighty-whitieswhere his hard-on was building the fabric out and just below that - _thighs._ Fat, wobbly, pale things, striped with faded stretch marks, just begging to be groped and kneaded and covered in hickeys and bite marks. Why the Hell had Crowley ever bothered shagging anyone who did not have thighs like that??  
Why had he ever bothered sleeping with anyone who was not Aziraphale, period. The blond looked seven different kinds of vulnerable and delicious and deliciously vulnerable as he lay there, tugging nervously on the hem of his vest, eyes locked on Crowley's face like a man hypnotised.   
Crowley ran a hand up - or down, technically, in this position? - a luscious thigh, against the growth of blond hair, all the way up to where it started to thicken up near Aziraphale's groin before hooking his thumb under the hem of that stupid, ridiculous, _unnecessary bastard of a vest_ that currently stood between Crowley and the rest of everything about Aziraphale's body that he had yet to see.   
He did, however, not make it very far before being halted by Aziraphale's hands, as they continued to hold onto the garment.   
"You're still over-dressed, cutie," Crowley noted gently.   
_Don't be shy, Angel, you're delicious, let me eat you up in one bite...  
_ Aziraphale's eyes snapped away and he _pouted_.   
"So are you..." Aziraphale muttered petulantly.   
Why was it so hot when he was being a prissy, little shit??  
Crowley decided to question less and enjoy more and smirked.   
"A'ight. If you insist..." he muttered. He slipped back up off the mattress to stand at the foot of the bed and maybe put on just a bit of a show as he wiggled off his slips. He carelessly let the scrap of fabric join the rest of his clothes, discarded on the floor - he had shown them far less consideration than Aziraphale's since the mood was in far less risk of being killed by his clothes getting rumbled and fucking off to take up a wild existence under his bed. Then he held out his arms, dropping a hip and looked at Aziraphale on the bed. The blond was staring at him like he was in no way, shape or form ready to just be confronted with a stark-naked man like that, desperately hard cock and all.   
Crowley lolled his head to the side and teasingly quirked a brow.  
"No?"   
Aziraphale's hands scrabbled to still tug on the hem of his vest while also covering his chest, his stomach and everything else, all at once.   
"I didn't - I mean, I - No. Uh. Yes, uhm..." he protested, eyes flitting across the ceiling and his cheeks verging on purple rather than red.  
Crowley let out an exhale that might just have turned slightly into a growl. He climbed back onto the bed, prowling his way up the mattress until he was at eye level with Aziraphale, holding himself up on his hands above the blond.   
"Your turn next?"  
Aziraphale clearly caught the question in the statement.   
"Well... wouldn't I..."  
'Have to?' hung unspoken in the air between them.   
_If you're asking like that, Angel, then yeah, that would definitely be the easiest way.  
_ Crowley watched the way Aziraphale nonetheless continued to cling to his vest like it might save his life. He remembered a pudgy gut being self-consciously sucked in on more than one occasion. He decided to let Aziraphale have his security blanket just a little while longer.   
He put on his sweetest smirk and hooked a thumb under the waistband of Aziraphale's pants. Aziraphale let the garment be pulled off, but did tug a bit harder on his vest. Crowley decided to let it be for now and instead focus on what he could have.   
"Hellooo," he crowed, forgetting all about the chair and simply tossing Aziraphale's pants off to wherever the fuck they felt like landing. Then his hands crabbed their way up Aziraphale's thighs, his eyes locked on the dark red, leaking cock now on display in its nest of dull blond curls.   
Aziraphale huffed and squirmed a little, but when Crowley looked up at him, Aziraphale was carefully peering down at him as well. Crowley felt his smirk grow to a grin as he held Aziraphale's gaze and lowered his head towards the blond's groin, giving his thick cock a few long, thorough sucks, earning himself a couple of perfect whiny noises that sent his head reeling.   
"So," he said conversationally, after releasing Aziraphale's throbbing hard-on with a wet 'pop' and resting his chin comfortably on a well-padded hip. "what's the plan now?"   
Aziraphale cleared his throat.  
"I - I don't have -" he sputtered. "You're the - I'd've thought -" His hands smoothed over the hem of the vest as if wanting to make doubly sure it was covering everything it could possibly cover. "I mean, I figured you had... Not that I'd know anything about... that, but I thought you -" Something dark and horrible and hurt flashed through his eyes. "Unless of course you'd rather call it a night," he finished in what was clearly a valiant attempt to hide the humiliation in his voice.   
Crowley quickly shook his head.  
"Nah, nah I've had like... ten cups of coffee today, I'm ready to stay up for the rest of the week," he said flatly.   
Aziraphale looked both reassured and like he was now one step closer to plunging into very cold water.   
"Well, then..." he said carefully. "in that case, if you were to, erh... I mean, that's how it's done, isn't it..?" he stuttered. "If you were to..."  
Crowley's brain resumed the ear-dripping it had been having a go at earlier.   
_Yeah. Yup. Uh-huh. That's how it's done.  
_ "If I were to... take a little bit of advantage of you..?" Crowley offered smoothly, pushing himself up on his hands and leaning down to press his nose lightly against Aziraphale's. "Incorrigible bastard that I am..."  
Aziraphale did a thing that Crowley could only describe as 'swoon' - and that in spite of already being completely horizontal on a bed.   
"Quite..." he whispered shrilly, lolling his head to one side, running his lips through his teeth in a way that could not possibly have been accidental.   
Crowley smirked.   
_You're a shameless, little tart, you are, Angel.   
_"Right. One second, gorgeous, don't you move an inch," he growled against Aziraphale's pulse point before swaggering off the bathroom for a towel and the lube, which had been the victim of a bit of a mess during the last time he imagined doing _exactly what he was now about to do_ \- all things permitting. Or well. _Aziraphale_ permitting - and had had to be given a quick bath since it had been just about sticky enough to cling to ceiling.  
The blue eye that gawked up at Crowley as he came sauntering back, in seemed pretty damn permissive, even if the brows above them were scrunched up worse than those of a confused puppy.   
Crowley crawled onto the bed and kneeled, leaning back onto his haunches.   
"May I..?" he purred.   
Aziraphale was still clinging to his vest, legs slightly bent and knees firmly pressed together, but nodded he timidly.   
"I... yes. I-I suppose you know beeeehh-!"  
Crowley had muscled his way between Aziraphale's legs, hoisting them onto his shoulders, thighs jiggling and all, and shoved the towel into place under Aziraphale's arse.   
Oh, to be that towel...  
Aziraphale huffed affrontedly when he was dropped back down again, trying once again to press his knees together, in spite of Crowley sitting between them, and pouted furiously. Crowley had definitely been stuck in worse places than between the Best Pair of Thighs in the World. He managed to lean down and gently nudged Aziraphale's head back in order to kiss the pout away, however adorable it was. The pout easily yielded and a soft hand even crept up to rest against the back of his neck.  
"Ever done this before?" he asked lowly as they broke apart.   
Aziraphale frowned and shook his head lightly.  
"N-no, no, I told you... Lindy... we never got... around to... to much," he mumbled.  
 _No, not that guy. Forget boring guy. Forget some loser who complained your cock was too thick. Forget Mr 'wasn't like that' at the theatre when you attempted a bit PDA. Forget all about him. I'll make you feel_ everything _that stupid prat never did.   
_"I meant on your own," Crowley said sweetly, while his hand reached the tube of lube. "in bed, with your hands under the covers like a naughty boy... Or in the shower? Since the hot water feels nice anyway, might as well make it nicer still..."  
Aziraphale swallowed.  
"I have not, no," he said, a bit stiffly. "I... that's not... I'm not..."  
 _Used to that kinda thing? No, you're not, Angel, but I'll change that if you let me...  
_ "It'll feel good..." Crowley whispered against his cheek, shifting about a bit so he was straddling one of Aziraphale's thighs, pushing the blond's legs further apart. "I promise..." Between their bodies he popped the cap of the tube open, squeezing a dollop onto a couple of fingers. "I'll make you feel so, so good..." he whined, mouthing along Aziraphale's jaw while he rubbed his fingers together. "It'll be perfect..."  
Aziraphale gave a little shriek as Crowley let his first finger press against his hole. The lubricant was cold, he felt frightfully hot and sweaty and being touched... _there_ felt very, very... improper. It was not... the sort of place you... were actually supposed to be touched, was it really, that was not what it was meant for...   
He suddenly wished he could have showered before this. It seemed more polite, to be freshly showered... He should never have gone home with Crowley like this, it had been a terrible idea. He was in no way... prepped for this. Not at his best. Not that he should ever _want_ to be 'at his best' for this sort of thing, since he should not _at all_ be doing it, for several reasons, but _oh_ , the way Crowley's finger was stroking against his skin was... really quite the thing. He let his head loll back against Crowley's ridiculously luxurious pillow and tried not to moan too loudly.  
"Told you it was good," Crowley's voice suddenly rumbled, just by his ear. The pressure of the digit went up incrementally. "Promised you..."  
Aziraphale let his hand still clinging to Crowley's side drop and nodded vaguely.   
"I can make it better still..."   
Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. There was only one real possible... 'upgrade' to this, was there not?  
He dared peeking up at Crowley, who stared back at him, eyes wide and intense, framed by his hair where it hung about his face in thick, auburn curtains. He was beautiful as he lay there, chest heaving and cheeks flushed, his pupils blown so wide they threatened to swallow up the coloboma holes. Aziraphale was vaguely aware that the ginger's narrow hips were grinding languidly against his thigh, somewhere further away, a million miles away it almost felt like, somewhere that was not right there, in those lovely, yellow eyes...  
"Just..." He had to pause to clear his throat. His voice had gone terribly squeaky all of a sudden. "B-be... gentle..." he muttered.   
Crowley's mouth twisted in a lazy grin. He stole a sloppy kiss off Aziraphale's lips.  
"I'll be so gentle, Angel..." he whispered. "I'll go sooo slow, you'll beg for more..."  
Aziraphale was indeed on the verge of begging as Crowley's finger slowly... _breached him_ \- just the concept of that happening was a lot to handle - but he was unsure what for. For it to end? For mercy? For more? Or just for that moment to never, ever end, for him and Crowley to be stuck like that forever, an eternal drag of Crowley's digit pushing into him, gently prying him open...   
Aziraphale bit off a keening noise and squirmed, squeezing his eyes shut.   
Somewhere above him Crowley chuckled darkly.   
"Is that nice, Angel? Looks like it..." he cooed. "Wonder what'll happen if I..."  
There was no biting off or choking down or holding back the sound that wrangled its way out between Aziraphale's lips as Crowley _bent_ his finger inside Aziraphale. It felt entirely too good to do anything about, except moan and let his hips cant down against Crowley's hand as they pleased while the redheads menace repeated the motion over and over.  
"Wasn't that better?" Crowley hissed agains the shell of his ear. "I could make you finish like this, if you wanted... Just my finger touching juuust so until you see stars... Wouldn't even need to touch your cock, hard as it is to resist the temptation..."  
Aziraphale squirmed.   
"B-but - ah! - wha-t a-a-abouttt _OH!_ What about... y-you?" he managed, his hands blindly fumbling for any patch of skin on Crowley they could reach while he fought to pry his eyes open.  
Crowley chuckled, but he sounded very out of breath.   
"What about me, Angel?"   
"D-don't, _oh, goodness_ , don't you... want..." Aziraphale's eyes finally opened. He lifted his head to look down towards Crowley's hips, which had picked up speed in their grinding against his thigh. He realised his vest had ridden quite a way's way up... And with every movement all those... awfully soft bits around his middle and his chest... jiggled. What on Earth would that have looked like if they went... full swing, as one might call it..?? "But if you'd rather..."  
Crowley's yellow eyes came into Aziraphale field of view, almost burning.   
"Would I rather what, Angel?" he hummed. "Hump your thigh until I come? Finger your sweet, tight, little arse until you're a sobbing mess..?" He pushed up, off Aziraphale, his finger withdrawing and leaving Aziraphale clenching around nothing. "Or maybe there was something else you wanted..." he asked darkly, quirking a brow almost arrogantly.  
He looked too gorgeous to even be real as he looked down at Aziraphale, lean and sinewy and tan, a few strands of his long hair sticking slightly to his forehead. He was entirely too lovely to refuse.   
"You did... offer your assistance..." Aziraphale's brain managed to recall in a stroke of absolute genius. Oh, how awful he was, using a simple choice of words against Crowley like this! But the redhead _did_ keep asking...  
Crowley did a completely boneless thing, where he seemed to fold in half in one long, fluid motion before slithering his way up Aziraphale's body.   
"I did, didn't I?" he hissed. "Promised to do the job that other pillock never got 'round to..." His hand - his _clean_ hand, Aziraphale noted - stroked Aziraphale's hip, almost possessively.   
Perhaps that was it, Aziraphale thought. Perhaps Crowley was, if not pleased, then at least _alright_ with... what was on offer, due to other perks that came with it, such as Aziraphale having... no previous... experience. And also that he was a priest... Aziraphale could see how that might be quite a catch.   
It stung ever so slightly, but his theory that Crowley was going through some sort of phase of coping was not a new one and if Crowley's _phase_ allowed Aziraphale to pretend... Pretend what, exactly? There was nothing to _pretend_ , Crowley was just good-looking and Aziraphale was going through a prolonged weak spot and eventually he would get a grip on things, but until then he just... had a very handsome and alluring and troubled friend and the combination of their different issues just resulted in a few mishaps. It would die out, sometime. And then, hopefully, they would be friends. Just plain old chums with no... extra bits. That's what they were at the moment. Friends with... extra bits.  
No, Aziraphale decided, there was nothing to 'pretend'. They liked each other well enough, took an interest in each other's well-being and on the side of that they just... needed to figure out keeping their hands off each other. But no _pretending_ was required.   
Crowley was his friend. What more could one want in a... partner of this type?  
"I'll have to do a thing or two, gorgeous," Crowley muttered against his ear, his hand back between Aziraphale's legs, once more cold and freshly slicked. "Wouldn't wanna hurt that cute, little hole of yours..." He slipped his index finger back in, thrusting in and out a few times.  
Aziraphale gasped as the tip of another finger pressed against him. The stretch as it entered him felt like too much for about half a second, then his body gave way and allowed the intrusion and instead of 'too much' it felt more like 'not quite enough'. His hand drifted down to paw at his erection where it leaked against his stomach.   
Against his ear, Crowley chuckled huskily.  
"That good, Angel? Getting stretched a little feel nice?"   
Aziraphale tried his best to nod but it was hard to concentrate in that moment, wot with the way Crowley was spreading his fingers further apart inside him and the throb in his member. He ended up simply moaning in response, his hips jerking helplessly.   
"Could you take another one?" Crowley asked softly, his tongue ghosting against the shell of Aziraphale's ear. "Let me put three fingers in you..?"  
Aziraphale made a high, keening noise and grasped his own leaking member, trying to squirm his way down the mattress towards Crowley's fingers.   
"P-please..!"   
Crowley made a darkly pleased noise.   
"That's it, lovely, look at you, taking it so nicely..." he muttered as his third finger pushed inside. "You should see the way you're stretching, that sweet, little thing opening up..."  
Aziraphale had absolutely no need to see that, but as silly as it felt, the praise was quite lovely. He stroked himself loosely, rocking his hips against Crowley's hand, moaning into the redhead's lips as he dipped down for a kiss.   
"When - oh, yes, _yes_ , like that, oh! - when can - can you..?"   
Crowley snickered.  
"Impatient, Angel?"  
Aziraphale blushed and hid his face against Crowley's shoulder. Shit, this was brilliant. Forget fumbling about on the couch, _this here_. Watching Aziraphale turn to goo... Being the first to see that...  
Crowley had honestly never really understood the fuss about popping someone's cherry. What was the point of some inexperienced creature, either overly confident or riddled with insecurity, who had no idea which end of a cock was 'up' or what their needs or wants were? Much more fun going for a rumble with someone who had been around the block a few times, knew what felt good, knew to keep their teeth out of the way at key times.  
But this, right there, with Aziraphale felt like an absolute privilege, listening to those sweet groans, grinding himself against those perfect thighs while Aziraphale's body clamped down on his fingers like a vise and -   
Crowley had to very abruptly pull himself out of his reverie and forced his hips to stay _very_ still. He might have ended up rather disappointing his paying crowd of one if he had not and he was just not ready to cope with that particular situation.   
"Right... I, uh, yeah, that's fine now..."   
_Moving the fuck on before I get too excited about it all...  
_ Aziraphale's face reappeared from Crowley's shoulder with a disappointed little noise as Crowley removed his fingers.  
"Uh..! Crowley, uhm..."  
Crowley slid all the way between Aziraphale's thighs rather than straddling one, leaving a shiny, wet spot behind, and dragged his eyes away from Aziraphale's fluttering hole.   
"Yeah?"   
There was a look of shy urgency on Aziraphale's face.  
"You'll, uh... you will... use..." He scoffed to himself and wrung his hands, as if lying on his back, nearly starkers, with his arse stretched and ready and his cock leaking, was a perfectly reasonable time to be clutching his pearls. "a... prophylactic, right?"  
 _Prophylactic_...  
Crowley decided to not even try to deal with the use of that particular word, in that moment.   
"Yep," he said instead. "Always do. Had a pretty nasty scare once, don't need another one of those..." he explained, diving into the bedside table drawer and retrieving a condom - not a bloody 'prophylactic'. "I mean," he added quickly. "I'm not saying that you've - Just... egh. I just - always. Yeah... Know the feeling..."  
Aziraphale pushed himself up on one elbow, one hand free itself from the Gordian knot of fingers to reach ever so slightly towards Crowley.   
"I-I wasn't suggesting -" he stammered, "that _you_... I mean - I just -"  
"Didn't think you were," Crowley smirked, ripping into the condom packaging and rolling the thing on. Aziraphale's eyes were drawn to the motion and went as wide as saucers.  
"Good..." he squeaked, his throat bobbing furiously as he swallowed a few times. "Marvellous..."  
Crowley leaned down to rest his elbows on Aziraphale's shoulders, pressing their foreheads together.   
_Now's the time to run, Angel, before things will be done that can't be undone again...  
_ Aziraphale appeared to have no intention of running anywhere. After a moments hesitation, he tilted his head, nudging his lips lightly agains the corner of Crowley's. Crowley responded with a kiss. He kept their lips locked while he pushed Aziraphale onto his back again. He took a moment to enjoy the sight of Aziraphale's arse, laid out and waiting, clenching around nothing, while he gave his cock a few strokes with a handful of lube. Then he grabbed Aziraphale by the hips and pulled him a little closer.   
"Forgive me Father, for I'm about to sin..."  
Aziraphale wanted to roll his eyes at that, and his eyes did indeed roll, but it was back into his skull as Crowley pressed slowly pressed into him. A long, slow noise, closer to a sigh than a moan, was drawn out of him and his entire body first tensed up and then went limp.   
Above him Crowley groaned and went still, lodged as far inside Aziraphale as he could go, it seemed.  
"Alright, Angel?" the redhead hissed. "Anything hurt?"  
Aziraphale blinked his eyes open and looked up. The redhead looked disheveled and predatory and so damned gorgeous, baring his teeth slightly, his skinny chest heaving and a single, while molar creeping out to bite into a red lip.  
"N-no, no. I'm fine, good - I mean..." Aziraphale tried to focus. This was quickly derailed by Crowley shifting his hips. "Oh goodness!"   
Crowley chuckled darkly and did it again. Aziraphale whimpered loudly and let his eyes drift shut again. He felt Crowley lean forward and the resulting shifting stole another whine from him, his hands caged between their bodies, his nails digging into Crowley's chest.  
"Aw, look at you..." Crowley purred. "Aren't you just the cutest, little thing ever?" He buried his face against Aziraphale neck and swiped his tongue out. Then he began rocking his hips slowly but steadily. Aziraphale gasped and writhed.   
"Crowley..!"  
Crowley lifted his head.  
"Yes?"  
Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open and drifted around the room, his fingers fiddling with Crowley's chest hair. Was there any part of the ginger menace that was not perfect..?  
"Could you... I mean... Would that -?" he stammered.  
Crowley made that... humming, rumbling noise that he sometimes did, the one that made Aziraphale want to flee and be caught.  
"What do you want, gorgeous?" he mumbled, rubbing his nose against Aziraphale's. "Tell me, we'll do it." He pushed his hips leisurely forward. "You want me to go faster? Harder? Wanna change position? Anything you like, it's yours..." he cooed.   
"Faster, maybe..?" Aziraphale squeaked, his eyes still flying nervously around the room, his face bright red.   
Crowley sped up slightly. Aziraphale concluded that asking for that had been an excellent choice.   
"Ah! Yes! Definitely faster!" he keened, his fingers scrabbling against Crowley's skin, desperate for something to anchor him into reality as the feeling of _having someone inside him_ threatened to let him drift into space.  
Crowley could do faster. As fast Aziraphale would like. He could do _anything_ Aziraphale wanted in that moment. The blond was honestly too bloody perfect like this; rumbled and flushed, his face completely scrunched up and his mouth open in a big, round 'O'.  
He was better than Crowley had ever dreamt he would be. Prettier and warmer and when Crowley clearly found the sweet spot, far more verbal, too.  
"Yes! There! Crowley, yes, please yes..!"  
Crowley grinned and thrust harder.   
"That's it?" he growled. "This is how you want it?"  
Aziraphale nodded, eyes squeezed shut and a whimper being punched out of him every time Crowley snapped his hips forward. Like the complete porno fantasy that he was, he took hold of his cock again and started stroking himself in earnest. As his breath quickened and he came all over himself with a choked-off noise, Crowley wondered at how in the holiest of fucks he had had the luck to land himself in that particular stupid, little village in the middle of nowhere that housed the Most Perfect Bloke Ever.  
Then Aziraphale's bod caught up with his orgasm and his rippling rim caught the head of Crowley's cock on the downstroke, catching him by surprise and ripping his orgasm out of him, accompanied by a wordless noise that Crowley would have been ashamed of, had he had the wherewithal to actually notice it while his hips jerked forwards a few more times.   
He rested his weight on one hand, huffing and wheezing for a moment, before rolling to one side and landing on his back. As his breath calmed down, his pulled the condom off his flagging erection and tied a knot on it. Then he worked up the courage to look over at Aziraphale. The blond was lying completely still, his chest rising and falling, eyes unblinkingly staring at the ceiling.   
Crowley swallowed. Were they about to have another awkward, maddening round of Aziraphale pushing him away like a used toy? Was the blond in for another attack of religious guilt, alone with his worries, with no one to talk to besides an unforgiving, unresponsive, judgemental God?  
Crowley got up from the bed. He felt like he should say something, something comforting maybe... Something about how it was all going to be fine, how Aziraphale should not worry... But the blond _was_ going to worry's as he not? Fret about his immortal soul and its many sins, worry that he had let down his office. Now that the rush of _wanting_ was over, there was only the drop and the emotional ramifications left. Was Aziraphale regretting it already? Did he wish he had not let Crowley have this, that he had saved himself?  
Crowley rounded the bed and cleared his throat.  
"Right, uh..." He gently patted a thigh that was too bloody lovely to never be appreciated by anyone ever again. "Lift a bit..?"  
Aziraphale shifted slightly, allowing Crowley to yank the sticky towel out from underneath him. Then he sat up, his hands fluttering lightly about his front, embarrassment at his unclothed state seemingly creeping in.   
"Would you..." he started politely. "mind if I use your bathroom..?"   
Crowley shook his head.  
"Naw, go ahead."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"Thank you, dear..."  
He patted off to the ensuite, closing the door behind him while Crowley stood there like a hopeless schmuck, staring after him and wishing he could follow him and drag him into the shower and wash him clean and hold him and...  
Crowley shook his head. He was being ridiculous. There was never going to be any of that. The divide between Aziraphale's little slip-ups and everything else was too great. Even if they were friends, this was not about that. This was just two grown men with an itch. A troublesome itch, too... That was all it would ever be. Aziraphale would never allow himself to let it grow into anything else. It would be too difficult for him.  
And Crowley could live with that. He could live on scraps and dreams, if that was all there was for him. Any little piece of Aziraphale that he could have was better than nothing, he thought, as he padded off to the guest toilet to wash his hands and throw the condom in the bin.   
As he returned to his bedroom, he grabbed his robe and threw it on. As a stray thought, he fished Aziraphale's pants up from the floor and put them on top of his trousers on the chair. He might as well spare the blond the always undignified naked search for run-away articles of clothing after a shag. Aziraphale was probably struggling with enough already.   
Crowley slunk into the main room and plopped himself down on the sofa to wait. He had only been sat there for a couple of minutes when Aziraphale walked out, dressed in his rumbled clothes and with no bowtie on.   
"I'm, uh..." Aziraphale pointed towards the front door. "I should... be off. Then."  
Crowley nodded.   
"You should, yeah. You gotta get to bed an'... stuff..."  
Aziraphale softly cleared his throat.   
"Indeed..."  
 _Damn it, Crowley, don't mention... all that stuff, you'll just make him feel worse!  
_ "So... Goodnight?" Crowley tried, getting up off the sofa and traipsing over to the front door.   
Aziraphale looked a hundred miles away as he nodded.   
"Yes... Goodnight, dear boy... Sleep well."  
With one last dazed look, Aziraphale let himself out, leaving Crowley to wonder about... everything. About what the fuck he was supposed to do about the fact that he had not only fallen for Aziraphale but was in a continuous process of _further falling_ to a point he was unsure he could ever climb back out...

Aziraphale felt odd as he walked home. Or perhaps he felt... normal? The more he thought about it, the more he got a distinct sense of being... normal. He had done a normal thing. A terribly bad, irresponsible, sinful... normal thing. That other people did too...  
He dropped onto the sofa in his sitting room with a sigh. He knew it was no good _pretending_ anything. He and Crowley were just friends with nice bits on the side, who were having issues together... But Lord help him, Crowley had looked like an absolutely _dream_... All rough and heated, barely a by-your-leave before having his wicked way with Aziraphale... Ever so gently having his way, all kisses and filthy words and -   
It was no good pretending. There was so much Aziraphale needed to do that was not about pretending, but about actually _doing_. And he should be focusing on that instead of dreaming up silly stories where Crowley - gorgeous, troublesome, perfect Crowley - was more than his friend...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ZERO interest in any typos, autocorrected words or misspellings in this. I promised... someone (hi, whoever you were, you commented and I appreciate that even tho I don't remember who you are lol) that there would filth up before Xmas and by JOVE, here it is! I'm literally in my nice frock, waiting for my guests to arrive xD 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the smut. A very happy Xmas to y'all. 
> 
> (Can you imagine, I used to think I could post the Xmas part of this story DURING THE HOLIDAYS. AHAHAHAHAAHHH ooohhh how naïve I was....)


	30. Chapter 30

_Wednesday, 6th September_

"Mo-om! I'm not a kiddd..!"  
Crowley quirked a brow and stopped whistling some tune that had been stuck in his head all morning, as he stalked through the backdoor to Anathema's shop. The yankee lady was on the phone, he assumed. Either that, or her mum had flown over from the States in a surprise attack. Crowley sauntered up behind Anathema who was fussing about by the counter, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.   
"Mom, I told you, it's all -"  
"Is it your mum?" Crowley asked dryly, pointing at the phone.   
Anathema startled violently, nearly dropping the phone, and spun on the spot, baring her teeth at him.  
Crowley snickered.  
"HI MUM!" he called at the phone.   
Anathema grimaced furiously.  
"No, Mom, it's no one - ... No, ew! Mom, no! He's not calling _you_ -" she stuttered, turning her back on Crowley who proceeded to help himself to a strut around the shop to prod at stuff on the shelves. "I can _promise_ you it's not like that! Mom, it's not even a _guy_ , it's just Crowley, please don't - Yeah, his name's Crowley..."  
Crowley paused his prodding to to shoot Anathema a look and snicker at her. Her bun up-do was slowly disintegrating into loose strands and she had a displeased sort of line around her right nostril. She glared back and gritted her teeth.  
"No, I can't introduce you -! Because I'm not _introducing_ you to my neighbours! - Mom, he's gay -!"  
Crowley zoned out of Anathema's scattered huffs and protestations, not bothering to correct her. He could live with being the Gay Friend if it meant not sitting through dinner with Anathema's mum, should she suddenly materialise in the village.   
"Mom, look, I gotta..." A plastic wrapped liquorice root collided with the back of Crowley's skull, startling him into knocking over some stupid little tree carving of a howling wolf. As he spun on the spot, Anathema gestured furiously at the shop door. She swung her hand back and forth a few times. "I think there's a _customer coming_..!" Anathema said emphatically, grimacing at Crowley. "I have to go!"  
Crowley grabbed the handle of the door and ripped it open with as much force as he could, giving the irritating, little metal wind chime above it an absolute heart attack and nearly tangling it, before slamming the door shut again.  
"Yeah, that's my bell, gotta go, talk to you later Mom, love ya, bye!"  
Anathema hung up and sighed, slumping over the counter for a second. Then she walked over to pick up the thrown liquorice root, heaving what sounded like a few fortifying breaths.  
"For once I'm actually glad to see you," she said tersely, cramming the root back in with its mates in a small copper container on the counter.   
"Unlike Mummy dearest," Crowley noted sneakily.  
Anathema undid her bun and tossed her hair over her shoulder with a scoff almost half as good as Aziraphale on a mediocre day.   
"I'm perfectly happy to hear from Mom," she said, scooping her hair back into a fresh bun. "Just not while I'm supposed to be open for business. She gets... chatty. While I'm trying to do things."   
"She's probably just trying to keep up with her baby girl and gotten lost in the timezones," Crowley shrugged. "Y'know what Yankees are like with that by now, surely."  
"My mom knows the timezones just fine," Anathema groaned. "After my first six months here I wrote her a list..." she added lowly.   
Crowley hummed.   
"You sound like a brisk stomp down to the pub to get me a tray of chips would do you good," he said, lips pursed and hip dropped.   
Anathema narrowed her eyes.  
"You came over just to boss me down to the pub to buy you lunch?" she challenged.   
Crowley pulled a twenty pound note of his pocket and waved it at her.   
"Treat yourself too, girlie."  
Anathema kept glaring, but then she marched over and grabbed the note.   
"I'll be getting a slice of pie as well," she warned.   
"If you can buy the whole damn pub for twenty quid, you're free to do so, and keep the change too," Crowley said languidly. "Just get me my chips."

Aziraphale carefully padded into the flower shop. Crowley's disembodied voice greeted him through the closed backroom door;  
"Yeahp?"  
"It's only me, dear."  
The door opened and Crowley's head poked out. A thin hand gestured at Aziraphale.   
"C'mere! Actually, lock the door, flip the sign and _then_ c'mere!"  
He vanished behind the door leaving a bewildered Aziraphale to lock up and hurry along while his stomach did flips. What on Earth was Crowley up to? Locking up with just the two of them in... Things had been polite between them, normal... Friendly. With amiable chats and... such. Exactly like it should be. Absolutely perfect. Their little... _thing_ had clearly changed nothing. Either it truly mattered nothing to Crowley, in terms of how he viewed Aziraphale as a friend, or he was putting in a bit of an effort. Either was good. Either was terrific.   
What could _ever_ be better than simply... resuming as pals after... an evening such as the one they had had...  
But perhaps it had simply been a bit of a calm before yet another storm, if Crowley was... locking him in, like this..?  
Aziraphale swallowed dryly as he watched as Crowley locked the backdoor as well.  
"So, uh..." he started, stepping closer as Crowley turned around to face him. But to his surprise Crowley's facial expression was not the enigmatic, dangerous one he would have expected - rather, it was a rictus of mischief. "What are you doing??"  
Crowley pressed a finger to his lips. He grabbed a water glass from his work table and held it to his ear before leaning it against the wall between his and Anathema's backrooms.   
Aziraphale opened his mouth to repeat his question, but Crowley distractedly shushed him.  
"She's doing some sorta reading," he explained in a hushed voice, face furrowed with concentration.   
"And you're snooping -!" Aziraphale tutted.  
Crowley hissed.   
"I can't actually _hear_ what they're saying, I can just hear the rhubarb mutters," he said. "She's been at it for an age!" he groaned. "She's gotta be done somet - Hah! Shush, listen!"  
They both listened in silence as first steps and then the wind chime could faintly be heard through the wall, followed by another round of steps, presumably Anathema's.   
"Crowley, what are you doing??" Aziraphale asked.   
Crowley's ear-to-ear grin was back.   
"Wanna see something _bloody_ hilarious?" he asked with an excitement in his voice that deeply worried Aziraphale.   
"I'd really rather not answer that," Aziraphale retorted suspiciously.   
Crowley chortled.   
"Watch this, it'll be brilliant!" he cackled. He plucked his mobile out of a trouser pocket that Aziraphale was surprised it had fit into in the first place, and raised it to his lips.  
"Siri," he said very slowly and articulately. "play 'Cotton Eye Joe Playlist'..."  
Aziraphale raised a brow.   
"Wha -"  
A startled wail came from the other side of the wall as another voice suddenly - and _very_ loudly - began singing.   
" _What in the_ -!!"  
 _"If it hadn't been for Cotton Eye Joe, I'd've been married a long time 'go..."  
_ "CROWLEY!!"  
Crowley howled with laughter as Anathema came storming out into the yard and first tried the handle of the backdoor and then began pounding on it. He ducked down to remain unseen through the small window in the door and dragged Aziraphale down with him, hauling him off to the bottom of the stairs.   
"I'LL GET YOU, CROWLEY!!"  
Aziraphale lay half-sprawling on the bottom step of the stairs, a bit startled and trying to contain his laughter. Tears were streaming down Crowley's cheeks as he threw himself against the backroom door, slamming it closed, as Anathema's furious steps made their way through her banjo-infested shop on the other side of the wall, presumably in order to try the shop front door.   
Crowley returned to the bottom step, hiccuping with laughter as Anathema's howl of impotent rage could be heard out front.   
"You're wicked, you are," Aziraphale gasped. "How on Earth did you do that??"   
"It's - ah, hah, fuck, my face, ow, - it's a bunch of little wireless speakers," the redhead managed. "I hid them in her shop earlier today."  
"How many?" Aziraphale asked while Anathema could now be heard rummaging desperately through her shop.   
"Six!" Crowley sobbed, plucking his glasses off to wipe his eyes on his shirt.   
Aziraphale was full-on laughing now.   
"You're a horror!" He dared shove Crowley lightly on the shoulder and the boneless man nearly tumbled onto the floor, renewing his fit of laughter. "She'll never find them all!"  
"I sincerely hope not!" Crowley choked out. "It's gonna take her a fine while, I promise you that. One of them's under a floorboard!"  
Aziraphale clasped his sides.   
"H-how in the World -" he laughed.  
"Big ol' hammer while 'Nathema was out fetching lunch," Crowley sniffled breathlessly.   
Lord help Aziraphale, the ginger was gorgeous when he was dissolving like this, that easy smile, loose and wide and warm...  
On the other side of the wall, the rather obnoxious banjo kept playing.  
"And what is that god-awful music??" Aziraphale tutted, getting hold of himself, but still short of breath and still grinning.   
"That's Eurodance, that!" Crowley said affrontedly. "Europe's finest export anno 2000! Thought I should educate young Madam on a bit of local culture."  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.   
"Surely we can do better than _that_!" he said exasperatedly.   
Beyond the backdoor, Anathema returned to give it another furious knock.   
"Crowley, turn that off!"   
Crowley waved a dismissive hand and stood up, nodding his head for Aziraphale to follow.   
"That music was my youth!" he argued. "I've _stripped_ to that song!"   
Aziraphale groaned.  
"I thought the point of striptease was to put on a... titillating show," he said, choosing his words carefully as he trailed after Crowley up the stairs. "That song seems rather counter-productive to such an ambition..." He paused, one foot on the top step and looked around on the small landing. There were two doors, closely side-by-side to his left and one right in front of him. "Where are we going?" he asked, confused at first, and then suddenly rather nervous. He wondered if he was in for... another situation that was completely and utterly not his fault, but entirely Crowley's...  
"Fancy a cup of something?" Crowley asked, continuing forward. "I bought a box of these chocolate thingamabobs by mistake..."  
Aziraphale followed him into a room which at first contained a sleek leather sofa and an equally sleek glass-topped coffee table with a few large books semi-neatly stacked. As Aziraphale walked closer, he realised they were inspirational catalogues. Next to the sofa, on a small side table sat a machine vaguely similar to a coffee machine, as well as a bunch of high-shine, black mugs with a faint iridescent gleam to them. So this where Crowley did the consultations for weddings and such. Aziraphale was about to chipperly note that he had been curious about this space, when he instead guffawed rather thoroughly. He had turned to look at the other end of the room and had caught sight of the most ridiculous set of furniture he had ever seen.   
"Crowley. What the _Hell_ is that??"  
Crowley had been plugging his mobile into a charger by the desk. _If one could call it that_.  
"This?" he asked, as if there could be any doubt to what Aziraphale was referring. "It's a desk."  
"It's... hideous;" Aziraphale said, genuinely surprised. The monstrous table and matching throne-like chair were the polar opposite of anything he had seen at Crowley's house; gilded and ornate, with several contrasting colours of marble and anything but elegant. Not that he was particularly smitten with any of the furniture at Crowley's house, but this desk set felt like it was not even attempting to be shy about it.  
Crowley made a clear point of ignoring that remark.  
"It was made by... some German bloke, says the name somewhere on the underside, I think," he said smoothly. "An early, bambi-legged work in what was to become a long and internationally recognised career in brutalist furniture design. Cost an arm and a leg at the auction, I'll tell you that much, not mentioning any actual sums."   
"It looks like the sort of thing one would only own because it cost a fortune..." Aziraphale noted dryly skeptically.  
"I resent that!" Crowley groused, swaggering over to the coffee machine and spinning a stainless metal holder full of little, brown plastic cups with differently coloured lids before diving under the sofa and pulling out a cardboard box. "It was the first thing Lulu ever bought me at an auction," he said, his voice just a _smidge_ loving as he clawed the box open _.  
_ "One of your bored society ladies, I take it?" Aziraphale asked dryly. Crowley had never seemed particularly _attached_ to his dubious past or the people in it, what on Earth was that tone of voice supposed to be good for now??   
"My _first_ bored society lady," Crowley corrected him, snapping the lid of the coffee machine closed after popping in a brown plastic capsule.   
Aziraphale hummed and nodded. He had already heard that story. He decided he had no need to be reminded. He also decided that the woman had in fact been a creep and a predator and not at all a good influence on Crowley.   
"So this is the other half of your shop, then," he noted politely, changing the subject and letting his gaze do a second round while the coffee machine whirred. The unfinished brick walls were continued up here. They were mostly bare, bar a single, massive, photograph of what appeared to a corner of a black and red flower arrangement, printed on canvas, which hung unframed above the sofa, and a shelving unit similar to the rust-plagued ones downstairs, which sat to the left of the Crowley's desk with a small, rough iron figurine of some sort of bird and two sleek binders on its shelves. It was all very minimalist to behold. Aziraphale, previously acquainted with Crowley's kitchen, quietly wondered where Crowley had his _cupboard_ \- the one where he shoved everything at once and held it all in with one hand while closing the door with the other.   
"Yup..." The coffee machine finished sputtering liquid into the mug and Crowley exchanged the capsule for another one. "This takes a little while," he said with a nose wrinkle, pointing at the machine as it began whirring again. "It's a two-step thing, so it's... yeah..."  
Aziraphale made some sort of noise, a pointed little thing that made Crowley's skin crawl with the urge to say something clever or interesting or just... not awkward. He had tried to so hard to be friendly with Aziraphale lately, to treat him like... like the opposite of that endless, faceless horde of boring young things with pricy jeans and pricier coke habits that Crowley had left behind in London. Everything in Tadfield was different from London.   
The coffee machine decided to be helpful and finished doing its thing. Crowley grabbed the mug and held it out towards Aziraphale.   
"Chocolate... thingiething," he explained, nodding at the mug.   
"Couldn't you just serve it to your clients?" Aziraphale asked, nonetheless accepting the mug and sniffing the contents delicately.   
Crowley sniffed. He disliked thinking of himself as the sort who served his clients _chocolate thingiethings._ He was not that kind of business man. Chocolate thingiething invited people to get comfy and familiar, like Crowley was the sort of bloke who would appreciate being asked if he was married or how long he had lived in the village or some shit. Crowley went to quite the lengths to _not_ be that sort of bloke. Usually he would charmingly install the client on the sofa and incourage them to help themselves to a hot drink or offered to get them chilled water from the fridge if they liked and beyond that he would sit behind his desk and _wait_. He had thoroughly enjoyed watching brides come in cocky and slowly turn into nervous wrecks as they practically begged for his approval of their choices.   
Not that Crowley particularly enjoyed exerting power over people as such... It was just that he _loved_ being the most stylish person in a room. And the more certain people were that they were the most stylish, the more he enjoyed watching them realise they were, in fact, wrong.   
Chocolate thingiething was not stylish.   
Oh, well. He would just have to suffer through pushing foodstuff at Aziraphale. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it, he supposed. Would not do that poor, little Angel wasted away into nothing.  
"Doesn't match my brand statement," he shrugged. "So if you could help me get rid of the evidence, I'll owe you one."  
Aziraphale sipped his chocolate thingiething. His lashes did a terrible, fluttery thing that made Crowley want to feed him more stuff. Long live his stupid, dyslexic arse rushing through the shop, grabbing whatever box without having a proper look at what he was doing.   
"This is very nice!" Aziraphale said. "For something that comes out of a little plastic cup..." He eyed his drink appreciatively and took another careful sip. "Mm, yes, very nice, in fact!"  
Crowley dropped down onto the sofa and was about to offer Aziraphale a seat too, when down below in the backyard, Anathema's door could be heard slamming open.  
"CROWLEY! TURN THAT OFF, OR I SWEAR I'LL CURSE YOU!!"  
Aziraphale nearly choked on his chocolate thingiething.  
"Oh, goodness! Is that still playing??" he asked, horrifiedly.  
Crowley smiled slickly.   
"It's a one song playlist. It replays automatically," he cackled.  
Aziraphale tutted and shot Crowley a bit of a look.  
"You foul fiend."  
"It hasn't even played _that_ many times!" Crowley scoffed. "But alright. I'll turn it off. Actually, that's a really good idea. She'll be down there searching for them right now. Live to fight another day. There's absolutely _no_ way she'll ever find the one under the floor if it's not playing." He tied himself into a pretzel in order to fish his phone out of his pocket and hold it to his lips.   
Aziraphale held out a placating hand.  
"No, no, goodness, ooh, you're wicked, you are!" he scolded, trying to hide his laughter. "Can't you at least play her something nicer? Shostakovich second waltz or something?" he pleaded, dropping into the sofa next to Crowley, cradling his mug in his hands. Crowley wanted to chuck the mug out the window and take its place.  
"Fine," he said, after a moment of glaring at the mug from behind his dark glasses. "Siri, play Queen Playlist," he ordered his phone.   
A moment passed, then Anathema's voice rose from the backyard once more;  
"I'LL STILL MURDER YOU FIRST CHANCE GIVEN, BUT I'LL LET YOU LIVE UNCURSED FOR NOW!"  
Crowley snickered.   
Aziraphale pursed his lips in thought.   
"Queen..." he repeated. "I seem to recall a group of that name from my time in college." He smiled at Crowley. "I'm surprised anyone still remembers them."  
Crowley froze, his phone jammed halfway into his pocket.   
"Y-you're... you're what? You're surprised... anyone remembers... Queen..?" he stuttered, running a hand over his face, knocking off his dark glasses. "You're surprised... that - that anyone... Ghhphsssssskc-!"   
"My college days ended a while ago," Aziraphale said, sticking his nose in the air. "You may be in denial about your age, but I can admit to being no spring chi-"  
"You're surprised that anyone still remembers _Queen_..." Crowley sobbed weakly, slumping in his seat until his entire back was flush against the leather.   
"They were all the rage back then, but things keep barreling along," Aziraphale argued. "One minute you're beginning to catch onto the new thing and the next, people laugh at you when you bring them up..." he mumbled, against the rim of his mug.   
Crowley limply patted Aziraphale's knee.   
"I think you're fairly safe bringing up Queen," he said dryly. His hand seem to sort of... stay on Aziraphale's knee as he stopped patting. Aziraphale did not seem to mind. He sipped his chocolate thingiething and peered at the coffee table books while he did a little wiggle that in turn made Crowley's dick do a little wiggle.  
"This sofa is a lot nicer than the one at your house..." he noted, delicately setting down his mug amongst the coffee table books and producing a tartan glasses case. He fussily put on his reading glasses and plucked up a book, flipping through the pages. "These are... unusual," he said hesitantly, pointing at the page.  
Crowley lifted his head to look. The page featured a very nicely lit photo of a wedding centrepiece with a ram's skull surrounded by flowers in peach and pale pink tones.   
"Cheers," he said, letting his head loll back against the backrest of the sofa. "That was for a friend of a friend of an acquaintance. The bride came from a family of sheep farmers. She supplied the skulls herself."  
Aziraphale's brows rose.   
"You made this??" he said.   
Crowley nodded. His hand was still hanging out on Aziraphale's knee like it paid rent. Paid in kind, perhaps...  
"Yep. It's all my work," he said, gesturing at the books. "Otherwise I'd be doing the same five bloody Pinterest things again and again," he scoffed, rolling his eyes.   
"Goodness, you've done quite a few..." Aziraphale noted, looking at the other books on the table. "How long have you been doing flowers?"   
Crowley shrugged.  
"Started when I was... what? Twenty-three?" He shot Aziraphale a sideways glance. "It's another bored society lady story..." he warned smoothly.   
_Are you getting_ huffy _again, Angel? Never, surely..?  
_ Aziraphale groaned.  
"Don't tell me one of them dragged you along to an evening class," he tutted. "Good Lord..."  
"She did," Crowley said. "Turned out I was bloody good at it. She started asking me to do the flowers for when she had her friends over for dinners and such, so she could show off her clever, little toy."  
Aziraphale flipped a few more pages over.   
"Clever is right, I suppose..." he noted. "I take it this is why you decided to open a flower shop, of all things," he said. "I did wonder. Seemed like quite a jump from nightclub owner to florist."  
Crowley nodded. His hand was growing restless on Aziraphale's thigh. His middle finger had found an inseam and had started languidly stroking against it.   
"I figured it'd be easier to run a florist's out here than a luxury club," he deadpanned. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned in to look down on an arrangement of ivies he had mostly made as a joke but had ended up adding in because it had photographed well, dangling over the edge of the slate countertop in the kitchen in his old flat. He missed his flat sometimes... One major disadvantage it had to his current one, however, was that Aziraphale had never puttered about in it, sleeves rolled up and a tea towel tucked into the waist of his trousers, since Crowley did not own an apron. On second thought, missing that kitchen was a waste of time...  
Crowley realised his hand was still on Aziraphale's knee. The entire thing was moving now, not just the one finger. He smirked loosely at Aziraphale as the blond turned and looked at him over the rim of those stupid, ridiculous, wear-them-while-we're-shagging-please-Angel-please glasses.   
"You seem to be doing alright at it..." Aziraphale muttered.   
Crowley briefly debated if he should try to come out with some lame reply to draw the tension out a moment longer or if he should just close in for a kiss when Anathema's voice - _again._ For crying out loud! - could be heard from outside, accompanied by a loud knocking on the backdoor downstairs;  
"Hey! Asshole! You've got customers, y'know!"  
The slowly rising moment between them was broken. Aziraphale raised a brow that made Crowley brace for impact.   
"I retract my statement. You're clearly not that good at running a shop," he said tersely.   
Crowley pulled a face at him and got up.   
"What about you?" he shot back. "Shouldn't you be in your office doing... priestly stuff?"   
"It's a quarter to five," Aziraphale said primly, rising and adjusting his clothes. "and I have no prior arrangements for the afternoon. I've been off for forty-five minutes."  
Crowley blew a raspberry at a lock of hair that hung across his forehead.  
"I take it there'll be no getting rid of you then?" he grouched.   
_Don't go...   
_Aziraphale visibly paused.  
"I - well. I've nowhere particular I'm supposed to be, but I'd rather thought you'd prefer to not have me lounging around up here while you're on the job?" he asked with a small frown.   
_Lounge away, Angel, please.  
_ "Can't you just make yourself useful for once and drink some more of that chocolate bullshit, then?" Crowley shrugged, gesturing at the coffee machine. "You need to run one white and one brown capsule from the box. If it doesn't start, it's 'cos it needs water, the container's on the back. Bathroom's the one to the right." He nodded towards the landing.   
Aziraphale blinked.   
"I... if it'd really do you a favour..." he said, picking up his mug. "I suppose..."  
"It would, it would," Crowley reassured him while he sauntered towards the stairs, shoving his dark glasses back onto his nose. "Just..." _Just don't fucking go. We could have dinner, we could talk some more, we could get drunk and snog and I could try to stop myself from asking you to marry me..._ "get rid of it..."  
"I'll be right on it, then!"

Downstairs Crowley hurried out to the store front to unlock the door. Moneypenny's chump of a husband was stood outside. He offered a confused smile.   
"I know it said it was closed, but Miss Device said it was a misunderstanding," he said, pointing explanatorily at Anathema's shop door.  
"A strategic retreat," Crowley said blasély.   
Mr... Moneypenny - what the fuck was his name? Arnold? - nodded like a man who had no clue and followed Crowley inside.   
"Can I help?" Crowley asked, leaning on the counter. Had it not been for this guy, Crowley could have been upstairs, probably snogging Aziraphale or at the very least talking lowly into the space between them while feeling up a plump thigh...   
"Ah, yes, I, uh... I need some flowers."  
 _No fucking shit.   
_Crowley nodded.  
"Finally spoiling that pretty wife of yours a bit, I see?" he noted lightly.   
Mr Moneypenny did have the decency to look a bit sheepish.   
"Yes, well... It's been another year _on duty_ for her, hasn't it?" he offered valiantly. "Our anniversary is coming up," he explained. He looked around the shop. "You don't do chocolates?"   
Crowley actually looked around too, like he would need to make sure.  
"No," he said, a gear somewhere on the left and near the back in his brain slowly whirring to life. "I don't..." He sniffed. "You husbands will just have to plan a little better ahead and go elsewhere," he said, seeing as how the best defense was an attack.   
_Write that down, matey, and try to make it legible; Chuk-let...  
_ Mr Moneypenny nodded.   
"Better make it a big bunch of flowers, then," he said, nodding to himself and scratching his neck.   
"What sort of flowers?" Crowley asked, fully expecting 'something with roses' for a reply.   
"Well, she quite likes birds of Paradise," Mr Moneypenny replied willingly. "I believe that's what she calls them..? She's been trying to grow them for years but I'm afraid she doesn't have much of a green thumb." He chuckled a bit. "I've been no help either... I can mow a lawn, but that's about it... One year I actually moved the flowers she had planted by accident..."  
Crowley had birds of Paradise in the fridge out back. For a wedding, mind, but five or seven missing could be chalked up to accidents, and would never be noticed among all the other flowers... And Crowley needed a come-back after first being nagged by Aziraphale and then getting a bucket of water thrown in his face that he could not provide chocolates!  
"A'ight, sure, yep, I got some of those," he said.  
Mr Moneypenny looked duly impressed. Twat had better..!  
"I wasn't sure if that was a usual thing for a florist to stock," he said.  
"I like unusual things," Crowley hummed enigmatically as he slipped out back and nicked a bunch of some lady's wedding flowers. Oh well, that's what she got for trusting people. Sucker...   
"Should I just make the rest of this match up, or..?" he asked, holding up a bright orange flower.   
Mr Moneypenny nodded.  
"You're the expert."  
"Price range?"   
Mr Moneypenny cleared his throat.  
"Ah, well... A good thirty quid at least?"   
Crowley pulled in a deep, fortifying breath.  
"At least," he echoed.  
"So..." Mr Moneypenny started, in a tone that suggested a lot of _polite conversation_ was about to take place. "That nice car of yours out back, is it?" he asked, peering through the backroom door as if to try and catch a glimpse of the Bentley.  
"Be a pity to walk with a car like that," Crowley said disinterestedly.   
Mr Moneypenny chuckled.   
"We've talked about swapping ours for a newer thing," he said conversationally. "Deidre would like something a bit more smart, I think... But you get attached, don't you? It's the one we took our Adam home in," he reminisced.   
Crowley peered out the shop windows. A burgundy Morris Minor Traveller sat outside by the curb, the old sort with the wood in the back and all. It looked like it had been kept in decent condition, newly washed and all.  
"I guess the tax exemption isn't too bad either," he noted slyly.   
Mr Moneypenny shuffled his feet a bit, but looked quite pleased to have had his car noticed.  
"Well... I suppose you'd know," he said jovially.  
Applying for tax exemption on a classic car required a frightful lot of reading and had never seemed worth the effort, considering how easily he had always been able to afford it. Besides, Crowley figured his tax money might occasionally go towards fixing potholes in roads, even if it hardly ever seemed to, and his baby deserved pothole-free roads. Instead of replying, Crowley began whistling while trying to finish the bouquet as quickly as possible so he could get _back upstairs_. It was the same tune he had been whistling all morning, but he could not for the life of him recall where it was from and it served as a nameless stress-out tune for his hurry. Still whistling, and slowly getting a bit irritated as well as feeling rushed - where was that bastarding song _from_?? _-_ he swaggered back to the shop counter and started folding ferns around the bouquet.   
"Is that 'All the Queen's Men'?" Mr Moneypenny butted into Crowley's thoughts.  
Crowley paused.   
"That's what that is!" he said slowly. "When did I last watch that??" he wondered out loud. When _had_ he last watched that crap? Man, it had been brilliant!  
"Did you hear about the box set release?" Mr Moneypenny asked excitedly. "The extended cut?"  
Crowley gave up on folding ferns.  
"The what now??"  
"They're releasing a set with all the deleted scenes for the tenth anniversary," Mr Moneypenny explained. "My fishing magazine had an advertisement," he nodded. "Apparently there's a triple episode special on there, too, that never made it to the screen after the whole lawsuit and all that..."  
Crowley was feeling that oh, so modern craving for DVDs with previously unseen content. His skin was practically itching with the need to _consume this footage._ The show had been his go-to come-home-drunk-don't-wanna-sleep telly at one point about ten years back. He had needed a long moment when he found out the show had been cancelled just before the season three finale - not the last episode, but the additional stuff that was meant to actually round things up, which meant that everything had been left hanging and unsatisfied - due to someone or other in the production suing someone else over the rights to... whatever, the _point_ was that it had been cancelled.  
"I might just have to look into that..." he said slowly. "If I can remember," he added. No need to seem _excited_ or anything.   
"I'd be surprised if it's still available," Mr Moneypenny said. "It was a limited edition thing. I tried asking Deidre but she didn't seem too keen on the idea of me buying it..." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "She's never really understood the show. And the price was a bit steep, I suppose..."  
Considering that the show consisted of roughly fifty percent fight scenes and fifty percent silk underwear - in a time before _men_ in silk underwear had really gotten a spot on telly - Crowley could potentially see why Moneypenny would not be quite as smitten with the show. But fortunately, Crowley's only issue with regards to the show was getting hold of this fabled box set... Which should be easy enough. Half the limited edition items in the World were purchased by thrifty people who wanted to turn a profit on re-selling and money was no object.   
"I'm sure I could do a bit of internet sleuthing..." he said. He finished the bouquet and wrapped it in a few layers of black crepe paper. "You'll be going straight home to a vase with this?" he asked.   
Mr Moneypenny nodded.  
"I hope she has a vase large enough..." he said, eyeing the large bouquet.   
Crowley stuck a bag of flower food between the stems before wrapping it in cello wrap.   
"That'll be 85 quid," he said, tapping away at the register.   
Mr Moneypenny tried to be discreet about the fact that he was choking on air.  
"85??" he repeated.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Gotta spend that tax exemption on something," he noted.   
Mr Moneypenny cleared his throat.   
"Yes, ah, very good..." He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and paid with a debit card that had been in the wallet in that same back pocket for so long it was starting to get a curve to it. Crowley always managed to lose them before they got anywhere near that worn.   
Mr Moneypenny scooped up the bouquet.  
"Good luck hunting for that box set," he offered. "Uh... if you do find it... Perhaps I could borrow it... sometime?"  
"Yeah, sure, of course," Crowley said distractedly, ushering the other man to the door.   
"Are you closing up?" Mr Moneypenny asked.   
"I have an appointment elsewhere." _Upstairs on the sofa...  
_ "I'm sure Deidre will love the flowers."  
"So glad to hear it to, congrats on it all, bye-bye now."   
"Oh, and the cable net people," Mr Moneypenny merrily waffled on, even as Crowley was damn well nearly pushing him down the front steps. "They started digging on our street this morning. I'm not sure people really believed it would happen, but you've really pulled that one off!"  
"That's so nice of you to say that, but really, gotta go, places to be, ducks to fry..."  
 _Priests to snog...  
_ Crowley slammed the door shut and locked it, beamed a smile at Mr Moneypenny while flipping the sign back around, only to realise he had never flipped it to 'open' and quickly flipping it back, and hurried, as calmly as he could, upstairs.   
Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa, pretty much exactly where Crowley had left him, but just as Crowley was about to leap on the man, he caught sight of his face; Aziraphale looked bone-weary and fed-up as he stared off into mid-space. Upon closer inspection, he had his mobile phone in his hand.   
Crowley pushed his glasses up into his hair.   
"Who's died?"   
Aziraphale sighed.  
"The cable net people started digging this morning..." he said.   
Crowley frowned.  
"Yeh..?"  
"On Hogback Lane..." Aziraphale continued.  
"Yeah, s'where Moneypenny lives, right?" Crowley asked, confusion growing.  
"Yes. Her... And Arpee..." Aziraphale groaned.   
Crowley frowned.   
"Is he calling _you_ complaining about the cable net thing..?" he asked. He would not have put it past the bitter old bastard to bother just about anyone he could think of. He had, on more than one occasion, let his dissatisfaction with the project be known, but Nolan the account bloke had informed Crowley that his attempt to complain to the Tadfield Homeowners' Association had fallen on deaf ears and thusly there was very little he could actually do about it.   
Aziraphale almost sobbed.   
"Oh, nono, it's much worse..." he ground out. "He's probably annoyed about the noise and the mess. So he's called the _the bishop_... And the bishop has just now been on the phone to _me_. To inform me that he is very concerned with how better internet will increase the access to and aid the spread of indecent materials in the parish..."  
Crowley folded onto the sofa.   
"I, that's, phnh, gh - Sorry..?" he offered, lost for words at the absurdity.  
Aziraphale ran a hand over his face.  
"He wants to see me tomorrow morning..."  
"He does realise he can't actually _stop_ the project, right..?" Crowley said. "I don't think the Catholic Church has had that kinda power in this country for a couple of centuries..."  
"Of course he realises," Aziraphale snipped. "That's why he expects _me_ to persuade you lot to stop it... Once he's done giving me a dressing-down for allowing it to get this far... And for letting Deidre sign up the office building..." he added under his breath.   
The 'dressing down' Crowley had been planning involved more birthday suits and fewer trips down to the boss's office...   
"... Whoops..?"  
Aziraphale scoffed. He shot Crowley a hopeless look.   
"What the Hell am I gonna tell him?" he moaned, bouncing frustratedly in his seat before sagging tiredly, bringing out his double chin.   
"Say you need the internet for... doing good, churchly... stuff..." Crowley shrugged. When Aziraphale continued to glare morosely, he continued; "Say you need it to stay up-to-date with the depravities out there waiting to corrupt your flock. Say you'll be bringing it up in your sermons", he said, waiving his arms about. "Tell him some washed-up molly down from London came to town and brought with him filth and corruption and that getting better internet is just a matter of knowing thy enemy so you can fight back against the moral decline."  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue and squirmed.   
"But it's not _true_ though, is it?" Aziraphale fretted at his wringing hands in his lap. "Deidre's just fed up with constantly losing connection while she's trying to send out emails..."  
"It doesn't have to be true!" Crowley argued. "It just needs to work. This is none of the bishop's business, anyway."   
"I... I suppose..." Aziraphale said unsurely. "But... the church office is signed up... That'll be his business. He'll ask why..." He wrung his hands. "Probably demand that we cancel our order..."  
Crowley stretched out on the sofa with a lazy groan.   
"You literally _cannot_ pull out now, though," he said with a shrug. "Everyone's signed a contract that they're in it for the long hail, 'cos the costs are divvied out, the more the merrier, yadda-yadda." He folded one leg over the other and twisted around to fully face Aziraphale. "You can't fold now."   
Aziraphale slumped even further into his seat. His double chin had brought a friend along at this point.   
"Oh, Lord..."  
Crowley waved a hand about.   
"Nah, nah, nah, listen, that's good, it's brilliant. We just gotta spin it," he said, licking the corner of his mouth while his brain hurtled along at break-neck speed, nearly tripping over its own stubby, little feet because _Aziraphale needed help_. Fixing a problem he only had because Crowley had wanted better internet... "Look'ere. Even you _did_ back out, what would happen then? The price would go up for everyone else, yeah? I don't think your goodly neighbour would appreciate that very much, do you?"   
Aziraphale whimpered.  
"Don't even mention it..."  
"Yes, see!" Crowley said eagerly while Aziraphale sobbed something under his breath that sounded a lot like 'first the bloody roof, now this'. "They'd be annoyed that they'd have to dole out more! They'd be all over you, asking why. And you'd have to tell them that your hands are tied because the bishop gave you an order. That the bishop just made their new internet go up in price," he continued gravely.   
"The bishop would call that as a good a reason as any to not get the internet at all..." Aziraphale sighed.  
"Not gonna happen," Crowley said. "They've started. The money's goners. They're locked in."  
"The reward for sparing their souls the corruption will be a thousandfold in Heaven, regardless of monetary prices here on Earth..." Aziraphale intoned unenthusiastically.   
"Yeahhh... I somehow don't think people, their mortgages and their bank advisers are gonna buy that one," Crowley said. "Heavenly rewards don't pay the monthly interest. That's what people will see. That their bishop doesn't care about their housing prices or about the progress of the village."   
Aziraphale blinked a few times, while the smallest glimmer of hope could be seen in his eyes.   
"That's... that's not a very good look, as they say..." he said slowly.   
Crowley shook his head, brows nearly touching his hairline.   
"No, it is not. Your bishop wants customised dietary plans for all his clergymen. I don't think he'd like it if words such as 'reactionary' and 'staller' suddenly became attached to his name in the public eye..." he said slyly.  
Aziraphale pressed his lips together and cleared his throat with a concerned frown.  
"No. No, he most certainly would not."  
"He's a man of progress," Crowley pushed on.   
Aziraphale pursed his lips.  
"Oh, certainly," he said, nodding a little too keenly for it to seem sincere.   
"And people need to see that, right?" Crowley said with finality. "I mean, you're the village priest! You're the little man on the floor. You need to do your bit for the Church, keep up its good image and all. Otherwise people might just... stop supporting you all together. Wouldn't want to come to church because the diocese doesn't support local growth... Attendance would drop!" he gasped. "Or worse - they might complain to the archdiocese! All while your poor bishop's name's on the bill!" He folded his hands over one knee and pursed his lips sweetly at Aziraphale. "So, frankly, since he can't stop the World from turning on its axis and this corruptive force that is myself has already arrived and started fermenting sin, all the bishop and the Church and _you_ , in the role of poor bloody Uriah, can really do is to hang on tight and keep up with my wicked games. You simply can't _afford_ to be seen as contrary _now_ , when all it would achieve would be to push away all those poor, corruptible, precious souls in your village..." he finished with a shrug.   
Aziraphale looked at Crowley like he had hung the stars.   
"When you put it like that..." Aziraphale said. "the bishop could hardly _object_..."  
"It'll be a real feather in your hat," Crowley conceded. He watched as the idea fully settled under the fluffy, blond curls and Aziraphale's smile grew wider and just slightly mischievous.   
"Fancy grabbing a bite to eat at the Tree?" Aziraphale asked, face beaming. Then he grew thoughtful. "I might like to write down a few keywords for this..." he added, frowning a little to himself.   
Crowley was being rewarded with dinner for being a clever boy.   
For that sort of treats, he would happily learn to sit and fetch too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, we hit the brakes a bit, coming to a lull with a bit of story instead of whirlwind smut. Next ch is gonna be the same. There's stuff that needs to happen beyond those two morons bonking lol  
> I really enjoyed writing all these little moments, they'll all be paying off later. This famed "later" that I keep talking about...... -,-'
> 
> Bonus info; I wrote Crowley's clever excuse while on the can :P


	31. Chapter 31

_Saturday, 9th September_

Crowley was sulking on his sunbed in the middle of the concrete desert that he called his yard. September was not being at all cooperative, offering up a measly seventeen degrees of warmth, but all the same, Crowley was on his sunbed, dressed in a a thin cashmere henley, nose to the garishly white, early-autumn rays and a slate grey fleece blanket pulled up to his bellybutton, while one of the wireless speakers that Anathema had attempted to aim at his head, first chance given, played Queen on the little table next to him. Any day now, it would be tanning beds until June again, and he was bloody well determined to draw it out as long as he could. If you could call bundling up with a blanket over your legs like an old lady, 'drawing it out'. Marjie had sat with him for a bit, clearly enjoying a bit of off-the-clock chatter before tottering off in her high heels to receive an early client. On the way back inside she had threatened the sergeant with steak and kidney pie and the old grump had responded with some long-winded rant about 'feeding on the proceeds of harlotry'.   
Not that anyone believed for a second that he would leave the plate untouched once Marjie had left it on his front step as she always did. Crowley wondered if the shabby, old man got any other real meals besides what Marjie fed him, which had lead to the pondering if it was worth it, feeding him. He had arrived at the conclusion that he supposed it at least lowered the risk of discovering the old bloke dead on the sitting room floor, by following the unattractive odour.  
The sound of a bike slowly going by could be heard over Freddie's faint singing. Crowley opened one eye behind his sunglasses and peered out. Out on the road, going so slow he was swaying back and forth, Grubby was cycling by on his rusty, old ride. All alone. With a split lip. He was showing Crowley looks in-between looking onto the road to see where he was going.   
Crowley let his eye fall shut again.  
"Oi!"   
The rusty creaks of the bike stopped.   
"Hey there, Crowley."  
Crowley snuggled into his blanket.  
"C'mere."   
Footfalls and more bike creaks, drawing nearer and nearer.   
Crowley opened his eyes again and looked up at the boy.   
"The deuce happened to you and did it eat your horrendous, little friends?" he drawled.   
Grubby shrugged.   
"They're all grounded," he said, shuffling his feet. "I mean - Adam and Pepper are grounded. Wensley was supposed to be grounded, but he had to go into Oxford to get new glasses, so he'll be grounded when he comes back home later."   
Crowley pursed his lips, his curiosity vaguely sort of stirred since there was apparently nothing better on today.   
"What'd they do? And more importantly, what did you _not_ do?" he asked with a dry snort.   
Grubby looked about a bit awkwardly. With a grunt, Crowley folded one ankle over the other inside his blanket, freeing up space at the foot of the sunbed. The boy parked his bike and sat down, tucking his hands away under his thighs.   
"Right." Crowley unfolded his ankles to kick at Grubby. "Spit."   
Grubby shrugged again.   
"We got in a fight..." he admitted. "With the Johnsonites..."  
Crowley quirked a brow.  
"With the what now? What the fuck is a - a what was it?"  
"The Johnsonites," Grubby repeated. "Greasy Johnson and his gang... They live in Upper," he explained. "They suck."   
"You got in a fight with another gang?" Crowley said, quite surprised that gang war was a thing in Tadfield of all places, albeit in short trousers. "Why?"   
Grubby shifted in his seat.  
"Adam socked Greasy in the teeth," he said.   
That was surprisingly... forward for a kid who seemed to usually get his way by unblinkingly expecting things and counting on the World to be too taken aback to say 'no'.   
"And why did he do that?" Crowley asked impatiently.   
Grubby's face fell.   
"No reason..."  
"Balls."   
Predictably, the kid smirked a bit at Crowley's choice of words, but it quickly ended.   
"It's just... Greasy said... something about my parents..." he muttered. "About the... argument, that day, y'know, and... that they don't have any money..."  
"So your friends gave them a thrashing..." Crowley said. "What about you, then?" He eyed Grubby's split lip suspiciously.   
"I helped!" Grubby said indignantly.   
"Then why have all your mates been sent to Borstal while you're out here on the loose?" Crowley asked, folding his arms over his chest and tilted his head back, looking down his nose at the boy. "What're you, a snitch? 'You give 'em up for a plea deal?"   
Grubby sagged in his seat.   
"Mummy's not home..." he said in a low voice. "Daddy... couldn't be bothered grounding me..."  
Crowley felt his brows pinch together.   
"That's... cool?" he tried.   
Grubby tried to smile.   
"Yeah. Great..." he mumbled.  
"I mean, if you wanna go sit on the naughty step in my front room for half an hour, you're welcome to it," Crowley shrugged, squirming a bit in his seat as the silence got awkward.   
The joke fell flat as Grubby did not even try to smile this time.   
"No thanks..." he mumbled. "Could you maybe..." he trailed off.   
"What?" Crowley prodded.  
The boy swallowed.  
"Could you show me how a washing machine works?" he asked. "It's just... Laundry's piling up a bit at home and..."  
Crowley quirked a brow. Grubby was indeed looking - well. Grubby. His clothes had dirt stains all over, presumably from the fight.  
"That's not your problem," he said with shrug.  
 _You're ten. You should be making laundry, not worring that it's 'piling up'...  
_ "Mummy says Daddy's not very good at doing the laundry..." Grubby explained to his knees in a small voice.   
"You don't even know how to work the washer," Crowley countered.  
"If you could show me..."  
Crowley sniffed.  
"Make your dad show you," he said dryly. "while he's doing the laundry anyway, while your ma is at work on a Sunday." He cracked his back and let his head loll back against the backrest of the sunbed. "Go home and throw your muddy clothes at him."  
Grubby cleared his throat awkwardly and said nothing.   
Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses.  
"What?" he prompted. "What is it?"  
"I don't... have any clean clothes left..." Grubby mumbled.  
"Nothing at all?" Crowley asked, brows raised.  
"Two wooly jumpers and my nice trousers," the kid shrugged uncomfortably. "Mummy'll kill me if I go out in those... They're nearly brand new. Got 'em... got 'em just before Daddy lost his job..."  
 _Aw, shit...  
_ Crowley sighed hopelessly.   
"Right, c'mon." He swung himself upright and grabbed Grubby by the arm.  
The boy staggered onto his feet.  
"Where are we going?" he asked as Crowley dragged him along by the elbow.   
"Inside."  
Crowley bussed the boy into the cottage and opened the guest toilet door.   
"Right. In," he said pointing. "Strip. Leave it on the floor." He closed the door on a wide-eyed kid and stalked into his bedroom, yanking out the first t-shirt he came by and excavating a pair of boxer briefs he had not worn for several years. Returning to the guest toilet, he knocked on the door once, before throwing the clothes inside and shutting the door again. "Put those on."   
A moment later, Grubby poked his head out, Crowley's t-shirt sagging around his shoulders.   
"My clothes are -"  
"On the floor?" Crowley asked tersely.   
The boy dropped the bundle of clothes in his arms, that he had been questioningly holding out towards Crowley, like they were burning hot.   
Crowley hummed. He waved the boy out of the way, grabbed the dirty clothes and pushed the folding screen that hid his washer and dryer out of the way. He threw the clothes into the washer and set it to a speedy 60 degrees cycle. He had expected Grubby to sneak a peek, but when he turned around, the boy was still in the hallway, hands tugging idly on the hem of the t-shirt.   
"Thanks..."  
Crowley snorted.  
"Tell your dad to come and thank me," he snipped.  
Grubby's face did something complicated. Crowley _knew_ in his facial muscles what pulling that face like. All to well...  
"I think maybe Daddy was drunk when I left the house..." Grubby said in a valiant attempt at keeping his tone light.  
Crowley ran a hand through his hair, blowing a soft raspberry.  
 _Fuck...  
_ "You hungry?" he asked brusquely, stepping out of the guest toilet, pushing Grubby in front of him and shutting the door against the rumble of the washing machine.   
"I had cornflakes this morning," Grubby offered. "before I went out with the the others."   
Crowley peeked at his phone screen - not particularly discreetly, since getting the phone out of his pocket was as much of a struggle as turning a grumpy sheep over in order to sheer it. It was a quarter past twelve.   
"We're outta milk now," Grubby continued. "but I looked in the penny jar and there weren't any money to go to the shop and I don't have any money either, 'cos we went and got sweets yesterday, me and the others, so I'll have to tell Mummy... Maybe I shouldn't have gone for sweets..."  
"Cut that out," Crowley said flatly, cramming his phone back in his pocket. "You're ten, stop trying to be responsible and shit, it'll only make your brain melt."   
Grubby blinked.   
"It's just milk..." he mumbled.   
"You hungry?" Crowley repeated, ignoring the boy's protests, sauntering off towards the kitchen.   
Grubby stayed put by the guest toilet door.  
"We're not poor, y'know," he said, challengingly. "We're just... It's... something with the house. After Daddy lost his job they're having trouble paying or something..."  
 _Something, something, something you heard through the wall after you'd been sent to bed and your folks were arguing in the sitting room...  
_ "I thought it was our house..." Grubby carried on. "so how come they have to pay for it..?" He looked up at Crowley, face a mask of upset confusion.  
Crowley sniffed.  
"If they've lent money from somewhere, they have to pay that back," he said, digging out a packet of noodles from what was essentially his drawer for noodles and ketchup. "Chicken or beef?"  
Grubby was clearly considering the options, but reluctant to choose.  
"We have food at home," he said unsurely. "Are you gonna be eating?"  
Crowley would not be eating, no. He had had ten sulky fags as he stubbornly sat on his sunbed and four espressos that morning. That would have to do him. He was not the one who was growing.  
"I heard 'chicken'," he said briskly, plucking a bowl out of a cabinet and dumping the yellow noodle packet in it.   
"No, beef -!" Grubby said quickly. "I mean, if it's all the same to you..."  
Crowley exchanged the yellow packet for the brown one and tore it open, dumped everything into the bowl and switched the tap to boiling.   
Grubby hopped onto a barstool by the island counter and looked on fascinatedly as the hot water began flowing.   
"Wooow..."  
Crowley slapped a plate on top of the steaming bowl and dug out a fork. He would need to sort out his cutlery drawer at some point, everything was one big jumble in there. Tadfield had its very particular advantages, sure, but Crowley sure did miss having a lady come in to do for him twice a week... The Roomba only did so much.  
"Go back outside," he said, pushing the drawer shut with his hip. As the boy scurried back towards the door, he called after him out of an old, long-buried habit; "With shoes on!" He made himself another cup of coffee while the noodles stewed and then scooped up everything to go join Grubby. Outside, the kid had made himself at home with the blanket on the sunbed. Granted, seventeen degrees was a bit... fresh, when all you were wearing was someone else's pants. Crowley shooed the boy away from the backrest and dropped down onto the cushion.   
"Your house is really posh," Grubby said, accepting his bowl and fork. "I mean like, fancy and such. Just like your car."  
"Yeah." Crowley slouched against the backrest and sipped his coffee while Grubby blew extensively on a forkful of pale yellow strings. "That's living alone for ya. You can get whatever furniture you like and paint your walls any colour and there's no one to complain."  
 _Except for your hot flirt who'll complain that your sofa isn't comfortable enough for snogging on and he'll be kinda right... So you just switch to having sex in bed and actually, that's pretty cool too...  
_ "Have you always been alone?" Grubby asked, mouth full.  
"Mostly," Crowley answered evasively.   
"So you've never been married?"   
"What makes you think I'm the marrying sort in the first place?" Crowley challenged, cocking his head and raising a brow.   
"You're like... grown-up and such," Grubby concluded.   
"Lots of people don't get married," Crowley argued casually.   
"Yeah, like Father A and the sergeant," Grubby said, clearly counting neither as a real argument against his case.   
"I was married once, yeah," Crowley admitted, because being put in the same category as the sergeant was not something he was about to stand for.   
"Did you get a divorce?" Grubby pried, concern in his eyes.   
Crowley nodded, folding his arms loosely over his chest and drumming his index finger against his mug.   
"Yup."  
Grubby nodded along, dropping his eyes back to his noodles.   
"Was it bad?" he asked.   
Crowley shrugged.  
"I've had far worse things happen in my life," he said, truthfully.   
Grubby clearly pondered what the Hell that was supposed to mean for a second before continuing;   
"Did you have kids?"  
Crowley pursed his lips.  
"Eat your noodles before they get all slimy," he said, nodding at the bowl.   
Grubby prodded at his food.  
"I don't want my parents to get a divorce..." he said lowly, a deep worry line between his brows.  
Crowley clicked his tongue.  
"They still fighting?" he asked.   
Grubby nodded.  
"Mummy's at a wedding today..." he said. "To do the bride's hair and that. I mean, she's always done that sorta thing... 'cos you gotta do people's hair when they need it done, right?"   
Crowley nodded. He had been up at what had felt like the crack of dawn to finish the flower decorations for that event due some wanker or other cocking up his order and not delivering the damn flowers to his shop until seven that very, blasted morning..! He had left it to Nugent to get to flowers to the venue and then rewarded himself with the attempt at sunbathing that Grubby had interrupted.   
"But now Daddy complains about it..." Grubby continued, in a tiny voice. "I'm not sure how it's any different, but he says she's never home anymore..." The kid finally helped himself to forkful of noodled. "Maybe it's 'cos he's suddenly home all the time. When he was a carpenter he was always away too and he never had a problem back then..."  
 _Yep, that's the sound of a swiftly deteriorating marriage, right there...  
_ "Just try not to worry," Crowley shrugged.   
_It'll crash and burn either way, might as well try to not have an ulcer by the time that happens.  
_ "Mummy's complaining too... Says that Daddy never does anything around the house," Grubby continued, the dams very obviously open.  
Crowley hummed evasively, having nothing to add to the topic that would do anything but harm, but Grubby spared him the agony of coming up with something insightful and sensitive;  
"How long will my clothes be, do you think?"  
Crowley looked at his phone.  
"Half an hour left in the washer and then another 40 minutes in the dryer."  
Grubby nodded thoughtfully.  
"D'you think I could wear them to school on Monday if I'm careful?" he asked, scraping his fork through the cloudy broth in the bottom of the bowl, in search for more noodles.  
Crowley quirked a brow, coffee mug halfway to his lips.   
"I mean, yeah, probably, yeah."  
He was unsure if Grubby was capable of being careful, but in theory, most things were possible.  
Grubby nodded.  
"Just in case Daddy keeps forgetting... We don't use the dryer anymore, you see," he explained. "It's a waste on the electric bill, Mummy says. So now we just have wet clothes all over the utility room instead."  
Crowley was, reluctantly, transported back to a small living room with rain pelting the windows and a clothes horse brimming with wet laundry in front of an electric space heater, while the sounds of stiff bristles and clucking water rang in his ears. They had never had enough money for the dryer at the laundromat. Some months they had not even had money to go to the laundromat at all. But proud as she was, his mother had made damn sure no one would ever realise. All those evenings she had done the laundry in the bathroom instead, soaking clothes in the tub and scrubbing them in the sink. No matter what had been wrong at home, he had always looked right, she had made certain. Always clean, they had been, always with reasonably freshly cut hair, always the proper school uniforms, bought a size or two too large and nipped in at the waist and inwardly cuffed on the trouser legs so it all looked right... while Crowley's stomach growled as he was sent off to bed with no dinner for talking back to a teacher at school. Again...   
Crowley snapped himself out of it. He realised Grubby was still talking.  
"I gotta wear something clean to school..." the boy muttered. "Otherwise Greasy and Johnsonites are never gonna leave me alone. And the teachers will complain and my folks have enough problems -"  
"Stop worrying about their problems," Crowley interrupted.  
"But I just wanna help -"  
"They're grown-ups, they can manage."  
Grubby's face fell.  
"I don't... don't think Daddy really can..." he whispered to the last few sad, little squares of freeze dried carrot that swam about in his broth. "They used to just... figure things out, back when Daddy had a job... They were always busy and they always figured things out... They don't anymore..." He looked up at Crowley with teary eyes. "I just wanna help Daddy..." he said.  
"Parents are supposed to help their kids, not the other way 'round," Crowley said, swallowing the bitter aftertaste those words left him with.   
"But they might get divorced..!" Grubby argued. "If I help, then maybe they won't -"  
"If they split, it won't be your fault," Crowley said. He pushed away from the sink and leaned his elbows on the island counter instead, holding Grubby's gaze. "Getting a divorce is your parents decision, not yours. You're their son, not their therapist."  
Grubby sighed.  
"But maybe they'd fight less if I helped out a bit more..."  
 _They'd just shout even more if they realised you've had to keep things going, 'cos they'll blame each other for not doing it instead..._   
"They're shouting all the time..." he continued, before Crowley could say anything.   
The echoes of muffled voices through cheap council flat walls made an strange sort of itch run down Crowley's spine.   
"You can't help, kid. It goes beyond getting the laundry done," he said, distantly.   
"That's what the fighting's about..." Grubby said, frowning deeply.  
Crowley shook his head.  
"People shout at each other when they're under pressure," he said. "if they couldn't shout about the laundry, they'd invent something else to shout about."  
He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. Grubby handed him the bowl and then tugged his hands under his thighs and drew up his shoulders, giving no reply.  
"So... there's gang rivalry, even in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside?" Crowley drawled, letting his head loll back, because the only real advise he had about fighting parents was 'fuck 'em, you'll be fine on your own'.   
Grubby snorted.  
"Yeah. The Johnsonites suck," he said. "They were down by our den when we got there this morning. They'd picked it completely apart, it'll take forever to put it back together..." He kicked his muddy wellies against the concrete. "Adam's promised to plan something to get back at them at the Mudgame." He looked up at Crowley. "Are you gonna be at the Mudgame?"   
Crowley frowned.  
"Mudgame?"  
"Yeah, there've been posters up for a week now," Grubby said. "Have you not seen? I think Anathema has one in her shop window?"   
Crowley vaguely remembered some odd piece of yellow paper that he had not bothered asking about.   
"What exactly is a 'mudgame'?" he asked.   
"It's a game of cricket," Grubby explained. "I dunno when it started. Like... thirty years ago or something. Ages and ages. But like, everyone goes to Upper and then they hose down the cricket field, 'cos they have a proper, permanent one up there, and then Upper plays Lower while all the dads are sliding 'round in the mud and it's super fun."  
Crowley doubted that cricket could ever be 'super fun', but any sort of gathering of a crowd was a chance or a sale or two. Seemed like he would have to ask Pebbles to drag the self-serve box a little further than across the street this time.   
"Cricket's not really my cuppa," he shrugged.  
"It's not about cricket," Grubby scoffed like Crowley was being silly. "It's about watching Adam's dad fall on his ar- butt and slide ten feet and knocking over the butcher from Upper." A smile valiantly fought its way onto his face. "It's hilarious. Everyone's coming. Even Father A. He's not usually bothered about sports. He say's he's there in case someone needs their last... rights after crashing into someone else."   
Crowley pursed his lips.   
_Are you baiting me, you little shit..?   
_Nah, surely not.  
"Well, if people get hurt, I might wanna come have a gander after all," he said casually.   
In his pocket, his phone buzzed and a duck started quacking.   
"Those are your clothes done in the washer," he announced. "Don't do anything I'd've done while I'm gone..." he grumbled, righting himself.   
"Can I go have a look in your greenhouse?" Grubby asked. "You had so many tomatoes last t-" He cut himself off, wide-eyed.  
Crowley paused and turned on his heel.   
"Last time..?" he said slowly.   
Grubby giggled nervously.   
"It was just... Like, we went past, me and the others..." he said. "And... I mean, you live here and such, and we just got a bit curious, so we went and had a look... to say hi. Adam figured it'd probably be fine... You weren't home, so we, uh, we went and had a look at your greenhouse to see what you had in there. And, uhm, the door was all open and stuff and, erhm.."  
Crowley slowly swaggered back towards the sunbed, thumbs in his jeans' pockets and looked down his nose at Grubby, who seemed to be shrinking on the spot.  
"You walked into my greenhouse... and ate my tomatoes?"  
"We didn't eat any, honest!" Grubby said quickly. "They were a bit too green still..."  
"You just let yourself into my greenhouse..."   
Grubby nodded, looking away, his ears going red.  
"We figured you wouldn't mind..." he said, voice tiny.   
Crowley raised a brow. He let the silent moment stretch out until Grubby was squirming.  
"Nah," he then said with a shrug. "I don't. I'm bloody drowning in tomatoes, it's absolutely ridiculous."  
Grubby looked like his spine had turned to liquid.  
"Yeah, okay, cool... So, uh... we'll just come around and see if there are any good ones, if we like?" he asked, in the voice of someone who had just narrowly avoided a heart attack.   
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Crowley said vaguely, turning and sauntering off towards the cottage. "Go have a look now, if you fancy, but I can't promise they'll be ripe. The last batch might not make it before it gets too cold."  
He was smirking to himself as he moved the now dirt-free clothes to the dryer and set it to the fastest possible setting.   
Brazen, little bastards... But they probably had more fun scrounging his tomatoes than he had picking them before they could rot and end up on the ground, so what the Hell did he care.   
He returned to the now vacant sunbed and flopped down, scraping his hair up into a bun and letting his head drop back. A moment later Grubby joined him again, loudly munching tomatoes.   
"That's a lot of earrings," the boy noted, mouth full, tomato seeds already dribbled down the front of Crowley's shirt. "I'd like to get my ear pieced. Like that one you got there..." He pointed to Crowley's orbital. "But Mum says I'll have to wait, 'cos after next summer I'll be at Norton Secondary and they're kinda strict with those things, I guess..."  
Crowley smirked. He remembered getting in a World of trouble in primary, after one of the older kids on the block had pushed a sewing needle through his earlobe and put in a plastic coated paperclip one morning before school. It had been off-centre and all, but he had loved it for the whole twenty-eight minutes he had been allowed to keep it before the morning inspection had seen it yanked back out and thrown in the bin by his arsehole PE teacher.   
"Just get your belly button pierced instead," he suggested. "They won't see that."  
Grubby laughed but wrinkled his nose.  
"Those are for girls... My mum has one," he said.  
"I had one, a while back," Crowley shrugged. "Still have a scar."  
"Piercings cost money, anyway, unless you want to get an infection and have your ear fall off," Grubby continued dejectedly. "And they have uniforms, too... at Norton. I'll have to get all of that... Shirts and trousers and all. That's a lot of new clothes..."  
Crowley made a noise.   
"Your folks might have figured things out by then," he said. "Might not be an issue by that time. A lot can happen in a year..."   
_Take me, for example. I used to be allergic to church bells, now I'm stuck on some marshmallow in a dog collar...   
_Grubby looked so painfully unconvinced and as he sat there, in someone else's clothes while his own were being panic-laundered because his dad was daytime drinking and could not be arsed to do housework while his mom was away, working on a Saturday, it was hard to blame him.   
"Look," Crowley said, drawing up his legs and sitting Indian style, hands clasping his ankles. "it'll be fine," he said. "It will. I mean, ech, it just has to. Eventually."  
"What if it's not?" Grubby asked.   
"Then you wait until it is," Crowley shrugged.   
Grubby looked skeptical.  
"That easy?"  
Crowley wrinkled his nose.  
"Ehh. Mostly..."  
Grubby resumed eating his tomatoes with a thoughtful look on face.   
"You just can't give up," Crowley waxed on. "that's when you -"   
_... end up like your dad just now...  
_ An extraordinary loud growl could be heard from Grubby's stomach, cutting Crowley off.   
"Uh oh..." Grubby carefully put the remaining tomatoes down on the sunbed and clutched his middle. "Can I use your toilet?" he asked.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Yeah, sure, you know the way."  
"I'm not really supposed to eat tomatoes..." Grubby divulged before hurrying off towards the cottage.  
Crowley groaned loudly and facepalmed, knocking himself backwards like a turtle tipping over, against the backrest of the sunbed.   
Seriously, _kids_..!  
"If you have to be sick, do it in the sink!!" he screeched after the boy before the front door swung shut behind him.   
Across the street, Marjie let out a customer. She waved a hand at Crowley and tiptoed over in her ditzy fluffy slippers and a deep green dressing gown with cranes flying across the back, while the man ducked and scuttled along studiously avoiding eye contact with Crowley.  
"Having a visitor, dearie?" Marjie asked as she walked over, eyeing Grubby's bike.   
Crowley nodded.  
"Yeah, it's one of them there kids, y'know..." he said, gesturing vaguely. "He's just run off to have the squibs," he explained to a frowning Marjie. "Apparently, he can't have tomatoes... Which is a crying shame, since he's just spent twenty minutes stuffing himself with tomatoes..." he finished with a deep, hoarse sigh.  
Marjie clasped a hand over her mouth and her eyes nearly bulged out of her head with her effort to hold in a laugh.  
"It's not easy being human," she snickered, perching herself elegantly on the foot end of the sunbed.   
"No more clients?" Crowley asked.  
Marjie shook her head.   
"I need to take it easy," she said, rubbing her knee. "No point in going out with a bang if you blow up in the process, I always say."   
"Will you be going out, bang-less or otherwise, anytime soon?" Crowley asked.  
Marjie waved a hand about.  
"No definite plans, but I don't intend to buy it on the job," she said. "Might be nice to call it quits before I start walking funny too," she added, rubbing a hand against her hip.   
Crowley hummed.  
"There's always the fraudulent medium business," he crowed.   
Marjie scoffed.  
"I provide very real comfort to those people!" she said with mock offense.  
"To the plumber's grumpy wife, I've seen," Crowley noted. "Quite often, too."   
Marjie shrugged and her thin brows twitched in some sort of way.  
"She's very keen to keep him updated on the situation on this side of the veil," she said.   
"Good for you," Crowley sing-songed with a smirk.   
Marjie shook her head.  
"Wanting closure I can understand," she said. "But just waffling on..." She snorted. "As if I'd hand over the phone to poor Ron, anyway, even if I could. Goodness knows he's gone onto his reward."  
"Silence?" Crowley asked.  
Marjie shot him the most delightful look, like he was one more quib away from a spanking.  
"Was anyone going to mention that Messygame or whatever the dickens that thing was called, to me at some point? Before it had actually happened?" Crowley asked, rather than getting himself in trouble - however fun that might have been.   
"Oh, the Mudgame!" Marjie said, eyes widening. "Has no one said?? Blimey, yes. That's tomorrow! Will you be coming along or do you have things planned?"  
Crowley shrugged, like he did not care either way if he had the opportunity to show a bit of community spirit while in Aziraphale's company. Might be fun, laughing at people slipping and landing on the arses - or, that was to say, Crowley laughing and Aziraphale pretending not to laugh. It would be brilliant. Aziraphale had been endlessly excited to see Crowley whenever they ran into each other, planned or not, since the bishop had actually bought into Crowley's longwinded excuse why the church office needed cable net. Crowley had gotten his tan topped up in the glow of Aziraphale's smile as he had told Crowley of their success and had possibly, potentially, definitely been having a long and detailed _think_ about just how grateful Aziraphale might be for the help... But unfortunately no opportunities had presented themselves. Aziraphale had been busy and then Crowley had been busy and then Aziraphale had been stung by a mosquito - which had indeed prompted a reaction worthy of numbing cream - and... well. They had had bridge night, which had been nice and all, bickering and groaning as Crowley continued to be rubbish at the bidding, but... Crowley had wanted more. Another afternoon like the village fair, perhaps... Hanging out at an event, chattering and shooting each other silent looks and then maybe slinking off to have dinner. In private, possibly... Somewhere Aziraphale would not need to worry about anyone _not_ not hearing his avid protestations as Crowley snogged him breathless...  
"The kid said something about people falling and injuring themselves. Sounds like my kinda party."  
Marjie giggled.  
"Oh, it's delightful. But wear wellies if you have them," she warned. "Last year they got a bit excited hosing down the lawn, everyone was in ankle-deep."  
"Why do they turn their cricket pitch into a mud bath..?" Crowley asked dubiously.  
"We've had a tradition for many years, that once the kids are back in school and the new season starts, Upper plays Lower," Marjie explained. "And everyone goes to watch their daddies and husbands play. Well, about... I think seven years back or so, we were hit by rain on the day when they were supposed to play, so the match was delayed to next weekend. Only, we got another bout of rain that day and the next weekend too... Eventually they gave up and just played in the mud and the rain while everyone stood around with umbrellas and laughed. Then the year after, it was nice and dry, perfect weather forecast and all... So of course a handful of them had a few too many down at the local and went and hosed the pitch down in the middle of the night. And so a tradition was born," she finished, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Everyone thinks it's brilliant. Except, I suspect, the poor wives who have to do the laundry afterwards."  
Crowley snorted.  
"The road to Hell is paved with manbabies who can't work a washing machine," he huffed.   
"Mm... I wouldn't mind a fellow to do a bit of laundry for..." Marjie cooed, shooting the sergeant's derelict end of the house a long gaze.  
Crowley narrowly managed to contain a raspberry.  
"You're telling me he isn't making you do that too?"   
Marjie sniffed.  
"He isn't making me do anything!" she protested. "I just worry about him, so I try to cook him a nice, nutritious meal once in a while. If only he'd let me do more..." As Crowley groaned, she reached out and patted his knee. "I know it isn't terribly modern, darling... But I'm a different generation," she said. "We were taught to look after the menfolk. I know it's silly... but who else has he got?"  
"No one, because he's an old prat," Crowley retorted with no real bite. "I'm just saying you could do so, _so_ much better."  
Marjie tutted gently.   
"The evil you know," she said sagely.   
"The _heckler_ you know," Crowley replied, raising a brow.   
"It adds a bit of scandal and glamour," Marjie said, contentedly dismissive. "Especially when he has a go at my seance customers. You'd think there was a portal to Hell wide open in the front yard every other day. People find it convincing."  
Crowley had to honestly chuckle at that.  
"I begrudgingly have to respect the hustle," he admitted with a smirk.  
"Besides," Marjie said. "he's only human like the rest of us, poor, old dear."  
Crowley pulled a face.  
"Now, that I don't have to respect," he said.   
Marjie snorted softly. She turned to look as the front door to the cottage opened behind her. Crowley looked too. Grubby was standing there, looking... like a person who had just had the shits.   
"I was starting to wonder if you'd croaked," Crowley said. Not that he had really been paying attention to how long the kid had been gone, but it was one of those things you said, was it not?  
Grubby sighed.  
"I think maybe the dryer's done..." he said tiredly.  
"Just yank it open," Crowley said, waving a hand at him. "Nice, hard pull."  
Grubby nodded and vanished back inside.   
Marjie quirked a brow.  
"How bad was the stomach upset?" she asked. "Since he's running around in your clothes?"  
Crowley grinned.  
"Oh, that. Nah... He's just fallen victim to the great schism of modern life;" he said dryly. "The mothers who have moved on to only mothering their kids, not their husbands, and the husbands who haven't realised they have to wipe their own arses yet."  
Marjie tutted and shook her head while a faint crashing and banging could be heard from the cottage.   
"I really don't think Callum has taken it well, being laid off," she said sadly. "I just wonder how long poor Laura can stand it like this..."  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"Bit of shouting in public, can't cook his own dinner..." he said. "Sound familiar?"  
Marjie shot him a sharp glance.  
"Mr S is an old man. He has his pension _and_ he keeps himself busy with the odd jobs," she pouted. "And he doesn't _expect_ me to cook him dinner. It's not at all the same."  
Crowley wanted to argue but also did not want to completely ruin the mood, so he held his tongue. Conveniently, Grubby came back out, dressed in his own clothes once more.   
"Toasty," he said, wiggling inside his sweatshirt. "I left your clothes on the bathroom floor," he explained to Crowley.   
"Goodness, what ever happened to you, sweet thing??" Marjie cooed, eying Grubby's lip. "Have you had that cleaned?"  
Grubby and Crowley shot each other a look.  
"Eh... no?" Grubby offered.  
"He's been in a gang fight," Crowley drawled.  
Marjie tutted and swatted Crowley over the arm.  
"Honestly, you!" she chided, getting up. "Stay right there, treacle, I'll be back in a jiffy. I have some iodine somewhere, I reckon."  
Grubby and Brian watched her flitter across to her own house.   
"D'you think it really needs cleaning?" Grubby asked, taking up the vacant spot at the foot end of the sunbed.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"Just indulge her."  
Out on the street, a car drove by... And then paused and reversed back. A woman with pillar box red hair got out, frowning at Crowley and Grubby, who had gone very still.   
"Brian?"  
Oh, yeah. That was his name.  
 _Brian_ looked like he was unsure if he had done something wrong. Then Crowley remembered why the kid was even hanging out at his house in the first place.   
So he kind of had, yeah, alright...  
"M-mum, hi..."  
The woman walked closer. Her mascara was smudgy with wear around her eyes and her foundation was in the early stages of getting oily. She was dressed in a leopard pin skirt, blue tights and espadrilles beneath a pleather jacket. The lumps around her pudgy middle looked like her stomach had never really recovered from pregnancy, which was surprising since she was... young. Pretty young. Younger than Crowley would mostly recommend that you were when you had a ten year-old kid.   
"What're you doing here?" the Brian's mum asked.   
"Just... talking with Crowley..." Brian tried.   
His mum eyed the tomatoes that still sat by Crowley's feet on the cushion.  
"Have you been eating tomatoes??" she asked sharply.  
Brian shifted in his seat.  
His mother groaned.  
"Urgh, you _know_ you can't have tomatoes! And why are you _here_ , of all places?? Where are the others??"  
"It's just me..." Brian said. "Look, Mum..."  
"You're here all alone??" his mum sputtered. She shot Crowley a quick glance before looking back at her son.  
"It's, uhm..."  
"You can't just do that!" his mum exploded. "You can't just go to strangers' houses and -"  
"It's just Crowley..!" Brian protested.  
His mum seemed unimpressed by this exceptional argument.  
"We're going home, come on!" She grabbed Brian by the arm and hauled him along. Then she paused. "What's that smell??" She sniffed at Brian's shirt. "Why does your shirt smell like... green apple??"   
"Uhhh..!" Brian looked back at Crowley, panic on his face. "Uh, it was, uhm... it was kinda... dirty? So Crowley offered to... wash it for me..?"  
An pretty truthful, if lacking, account of what happened... And not one that was going to sound particularly stellar to a mother's ears. Crowley groaned inwardly.  
True enough, Brian's mum looked up at Crowley, still dragging her son towards the car.  
"What?"  
 _Brian, I need you to start coming clean or I'm grassing on you, mate...  
_ "Why's he helping you clean your clothes?" Brian's mum asked incredulously, shooting Crowley yet another _look_. "And what The Hell's happened to your lip??" she continued, looking back at her son.   
"It was 'cos..." Brian started, squirming out of his mum's grasp as they were nearly by the car. "I... We - me and the others... It was the Johnsonites!" he seems to decide was the best starting point. "They were down by our den and -"  
His mother groaned even louder.  
"Do _not_ tell me you've been in another fist fight!" she seethed. "Is that what happened to your lip?? Why has your dad not grounded you?!"  
Brian shuffled his feet.  
"Uh, but, yeah, like... afterwards my clothes were all muddy and then Crowley offered to -" he continued, rather than answer any questions.   
"Brian!" His mum grabbed him by both shoulders and lightly shook him. "You should've gone _home_ to _change_ , then! You can't just go up to strangers and let them -"  
"CROWLEY'S NOT A STRANGER!" Brian howled. "And I don't have any clean clothes at home, do I??"  
His mum froze on the spot. So did Marjie who had just emerged through her front door across the road, some kind of bottle in her hand.  
 _A minute and a half ago would have been a whole lot better, doll...  
_ "Has your dad not - I _told_ him -!"  
Brian looked completely wretched.  
"The others are all all grounded," he said. "I didn't have any clean clothes... I was just going 'round on my bike and Crowley was out here and I just sat about in some of his clothe's while  
mine were in the washer..."  
Brian's mum did not seem like she was listening. Her nose had gone very red, even through her makeup.   
"Get in the car," she said in a flat, wobbly, while Marjie appeared to be attempting to sneak across the road, still in her kitten heels and green dressing gown.   
"But my bike -" Brian argued.   
His mum shot the bike a ten mile stare like she had no idea what to do with it.   
"Laura..." Marjie tried carefully, as she walked up to them. "Sweetheart, Brian's just been chatting with Crowley and I," she said, which was a modified truth, but still a sort of truth. "Listen, why don't I just clean Brian's lip real quick and send him after you?" she offered. "You'll be going straight home, won't you, plum?"  
Brian nodded while his mum pulled in a breath so deep that Crowley could almost feel the pull of the vacuum in the air.   
"You're coming _straight_ home!" she then hissed at her son, pointing a warning finger at him. She then turned towards Crowley. "I'm so sorry if he's been a bother," she said, voice trembling.   
"Not at all," Crowley said quickly. He was still sitting on the sunbed like a chump.   
"No, no, it's very sweet of you to look after my boy when his dad..." She pressed her lips together tightly. "when his dad can't be bothered..." she finished, her voice very thin. She went around to the driver's side door and glared her son. "You are coming _straight_ home as soon as Marjorie has seen to your lip, understood?" she said sternly.   
"We'll make sure of it," Marjie said, gently nudging Brian along. "And I'll be seeing you in a week's time, Laura, hun, so we can get rid of those nasty roots of mine, no?"  
Lizzy nodded and got in her car, taking off with a growl of a clutch not being handle quite as it should be.   
Marjie guided Brian back to the sunbed and sat him down.   
"Now, let's see what we can do about this roguish cut lip of yours," she crowed.  
Brian looked miserable.  
"I... I don't wanna go home..." he muttered. "They'll be shouting..."  
Marjie patted his knee.  
"Don't you worry, sugar cube," she said, quirking a brow at Crowley over Brian's head. "I'm sure your lip will need a quite thorough cleaning..."  
Brian nodded, then clutched his stomach.  
"I think I need to use the toilet first..." he said. He quickly got up and rushed inside.   
Marjie sighed, watching the boy hurtle off with sympathy in her eyes. She shot Crowley a gently tired look.  
"Goodness me, all of this..." she sighed.   
Crowley sniffed.  
"Yeah... That wasn't a great look..." he admitted with grimace.   
Marjie quirked a brow.  
"Which?"  
"She didn't seem too bloody pleased that I just... stripped her kid down to my pants and all that..." Crowley noted, cringing slightly. He might have acted a bit rashly, just there.  
"Oh." Marjie waved him off. "That. Nono, that'll be fine, don't you worry, dear. A bit surprising, but I'll vouch for you," she shrugged.   
Crowley hummed. He might have been a bit miffed if someone had pulled a similar stunt with his ex's lad...   
"Still..."  
"You're cleared by virtue of association," Marjie said, reassuringly, patting Crowley's knee. "This isn't London. Out here it takes a village to raise a kid. It's not like you did anything bad!" she continued while Crowley still looked unconvinced by all this trusting familiarity.   
"I owe you one..." Crowley noted. "For the association." He sighed. "It's not like I could've done anything differently. Couldn't have him sit on my cushion in that state, he was filthy... And they don't tumble dry well, kids, they turn all thick and spongy..."  
Marjie nodded glumly.  
"Poor, little mite..." she conceded. Then she chortled softly. " _They don't tumble dry well..._ " she repeated shaking her head. "That mouth of yours is nothing but trouble, dear."  
"For me or for others?" Crowley purred with a smirk.  
Brian returned from the bathroom once more.   
"How's it going?" Crowley asked.   
Brian shook his head.   
"Not good..."   
Marjie unscrewed the cap of the medicine brown bottle she had brought over.  
"Now, hun, let's have a look at you... And maybe you can sneak in another trip to the bathroom before you go as well. I'm sure your mother will understand that."

_Sunday_ , _10th September_

"GET HIM IN THE ANKLES!!"  
"Anathema, really, not this again, I told you last year, this isn't American footb -"  
"AIM FOR THE FACE!"   
"Crowley!!"  
The Mudgame was happening. Marjie had once again taken on the role as knocker-upper for Crowley and had invited herself to a lift in the Bentley, which was far more enjoyable this time around, since Crowley was not headed to church. She was very smartly wrapped up in a thin, quilted, midnight blue onesie and a pair of white, ankle hight wellies with a two inch heel and bows on the front. The soles had been white too, but since the whole entire lawn at the Tadfield cricket pitch had been turned to slob, they were now dirt brown. Crowley had nearly slipped and fallen to his death as he and Marjie had tiptoed across the mud to join Aziraphale and Anathema who had already been at the scene when they had arrived, both in wellies. Anathema's were an absolutely offensive pair of deliberately duo-coloured thrift store atrocities - Aziraphale's had been an even worse, tartan pair. He had also been dressed in what Marjie had called his 'playsuit', a khaki coloured boiler suit which Crowley guessed was the only garment the blond fussbudget owned that was allowed anywhere near mud. It was... weirdly fetching on him, paint-stained and worn as it was. It made his arse look proper cute. If he had rolled up the sleeves, Crowley might have died on the spot.  
His smile had matched his arse when he saw Crowley clinging to Marjie as they made it the last bit of way to his side. He had looked deliciously guilty - and a bit upset, even - when confronted with not having reminded Crowley that the game would be taking place, apologising profusely, his hand squeezing Crowley's shoulder reassuringly for a second. He seemed to have felt the resulting slowing of the spin of the planet on its axis, same as Crowley did, because, sadly, he very quickly let go again.  
"So... What do we reckon this year?" he said, clearing his throat and studiously not looking at Crowley.   
"The butcher's lad is out with a busted wrist," Marjie said. "So that'll be in our favour at least. Bloody cheats, bringing him in every year, he doesn't belong on an Old Boys' team," she huffed.  
"The tarots were in favour when I checked this morning," Anathema said. "Pity about the butcher's son, though..." she muttered, quirking a brow.  
Marjie cackled.  
"He may be a dirty cheat, but one does wonder what other kinds of dirty he might be, that one..." she said with a wry grin.  
"JUST PUSH HIM!!"  
"Good grief, Anathema, my ear!"  
The game itself had turned out to be surprisingly entertaining, despite being _very_ much an Old Boys affair, with very low quality of aim, once Crowley had finished sneaking looks at Aziraphale's backside. Crowley had never managed to understand the rules to cricket and he still had not, but it had not been five minutes between the game starting and the first player slipping, as he tried to reach for a ball flying past him, and landing face-first in the mud and no understanding of any rules had been necessary in order to enjoy that.   
After about half an hour, Marjie had popped her handbag open and had started pulled out a hip flask and passed it around, which meant that Crowley was now tipsy while watching people hurting themselves and each other while spitting out mud and really, the only way this day could get better would be if Aziraphale groped him. He had just knocked back his third sip of brandy in time to watch Moneypenny's husband lose his footing while trying to touch the ball to the wickets and taking the entire thing down along with the... keeper, had Aziraphale possibly called it, but who could be sure. The blond had his hands full at the moment, trying to hush both Crowley and Anathema, who had turned out to be surprisingly bloodthirsty and competitive in the face of watching her neighbours attempt to win glory for the village. Crowley had merrily joined in, clapping and howling with laughter as Mr Moneypenny righted himself and the grinning keeper. Crowley was starting to suspect that it was not just the spectators on the sides who were not entirely sober. The local pub in Upper had a stand selling pints, soda and hot drinks off to one side, shielded behind a bit of netting, in case of stray balls and from the look of it, the pints were by far the most popular menu item.  
But everyone seemed to be having a ball of a time, even Adam and his friends as they came bolting up to Aziraphale just as he had produced a bag of lemon drops from a pocket. They were all dressed in a way that suggested that their mothers had strapped them into their waterproofs that morning and would not be letting them out until they were well out of Upper.  
"Heard the bag rustling, did y- Good Heavens! Wensley, what have you done??" Aziraphale started, ending in a yowl as he took at closer look at the Speccy.  
The scrawny boy looked up at the grown-ups with his one visible eye.   
"I've scratched my cornea, actually," he said, fingering the edge of the cotton circle he had taped across his left eye. "What're those ones?" he continued without missing a beat, eying the bag of sweets.  
"Lemon drops," Aziraphale said, cradling the bag in his hands. "Not that you lot deserve any, the way you've been getting on. Getting involved in fisticuffs..!"  
The kids shuffled their feet while Grubby shot Crowley a little bit of a smirk.   
"You heard?" Adam said glumly.  
"You'd better believe I've heard," Aziraphale scolded. "Look at you all!"  
There sure was something to look at; Adam had a mighty black eye and Pinkie had several split knuckles as well as a scratch along her cheek. Speccy's brand new glasses gleamed in the sunlight, too, but were somewhat detracted from by the eyepatch.   
"You look like the morning after a night out on the town that I once went on," he recalled cheerfully.   
Aziraphale shot Crowley a look that suggested that he deemed it to be the wrong time for that particular story, but then jumped at least a foot, dropping his bag of sweets as Anathema shouted, just next to him;  
"KILL HIM!!"  
Everyone laughed while Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley's arm to stabilise himself and catch his breath. The heat slowly seeped through the leather, making Crowley so so glad that at least Brian had deigned to tell him the game was happening.  
" _Wrong sport, Anathema_..!" Aziraphale groaned loudly, clutching his chest. "And you can't just tell people to kill poor postman Leslie, he's perfectly pleasant!"  
"Nonono, I got this!" Anathema protested. "I totally get it this year!"    
Adam fished the lemon drops out of the muddy grass and wiped it on the sleeve of his mac.   
"Can we have one?" he asked innocently.   
Aziraphale scowled for a moment.  
"Oh, go on then."  
The children crowded around the muddy bag like ants  
"Right," Adam said around a lemon drop, pushing the bag into Aziraphale's hand. "C'mon guys, we gotta get going."  
"Where are you going??" Aziraphale called out, looking a tad frazzled, his hand distractedly leaving Crowley's shoulder as the children bolted along.  
"Off," Adam called back.  
"What for??"  
"Vengeance!"  
Aziraphale groaned.  
"As I suspected..." he sighed. He straightened his posture closed his eyes. "Oh well. Not my circus, not my monkeys..."  
"I was under the impression that those children were in fact your monkeys..." Crowley noted as he watched the kids vanish into the woods. Brian had looked happier than yesterday, but kids were good liars and a smile was only surface deep...  
"They most certainly are not!" Aziraphale protested, meeting Crowley with a perfect pout as he turned back around. "I am not in the habit of keeping _any_ monkeys!"  
 _I could be your monkey. I could be any dumb pet you'd like to keep on a leash. Actually, yeah, put me on a fucking leash, that'd be pretty hot...  
_ "Tell me about the this rival gang?" Crowley inquired, because dragging Aziraphale into the mud and snogging him was not an option. He missed snogging Aziraphale... They would have to figure something out soon, find a moment to steal for themselves... Do something other than stand around amongst other people or else Crowley's head was going to explode, and his balls too, probably. Anathema had ruined their moment in his office and he wanted a rematch!  
"The Johnsonites," Anathema said distractedly.  
"Little Adam's archenemy and his cronies," Marjie explained dramatically, while pilfering a lemon drop out of Aziraphale's bag.   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"It's a group of kids from Upper," he said. "Their main pastime is meeting up with Adam and his pals in the middle of Hogback Wood and pestering them... Although sometimes they get up to menial vandalism too, charmingly," he scoffed.   
"That's them there," Anathema said. She pointed across the pitch, just as Rooney, the barman from the Tree, came sliding along, sideways. "The big one's their leader, Greasy Johnson."  
Crowley watched a large boy, both pudgy and tall for his age who hung about with a number of other boys, laughing and pointing at the players on the pitch. They were in the same state as Adam and his friends, bruised and scratched. The big one had a fat lip, presumably where Adam had punched him.  
"Greasy..?" Crowley asked skeptically. Brian had used that name too.  
"That's not his name, Anathema," Aziraphale scolded. "His name is... Joshua, I think. Can't be sure, he's not one of mine..."  
"Greasy?" Crowley said once more.   
"Apparently he struggled quite a bit with cradle cap all the way into primary school..." Aziraphale said. "That was a while ago now, but some names just stick..."   
"I have better names for him, the little beast," Anathema groused, glaring daggers at the kids. "They've let the air of my tyres more than once, him and his little mates..!"   
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"Poor, clumsy lump... I remember Deidre used to feel so bad for him, even when he and Adam had tried to knock each other's baby teeth out at school. She reckoned he only picked on the others so they wouldn't pick on him."  
"That was a while ago too," Anathema snorted. "Now he's just a little bully."  
"Habits can take a while to break," Aziraphale said distantly. "If you've found a way to not be a victim, you'll cling to that..."  
Crowley was vaguely reminded of a long, long chat, that seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago, which made him want to try and change the subject. A sudden need to _talk_ with Aziraphale overcame him. Not about Brian, not about that nagging feeling in his gut of being ten and fretting because you had grown out of your school uniform and a teacher had reprimanded you for your trousers being too short and now you would have to go home and tell your mum and where the Hell was that money supposed to come from anyway?? - Not even about school bullies or their victims and what they might or might not grow up to be. Just... talk. About anything. Not about not having enough money or about arguing parents... Just anything. Alone. Somewhere he only needed to be whatever he could be, and not here where he needed to be _Crowley_...  
"Hold the fort while I powder my nose, will you, darlings?" Marjie asked, patting Crowley on the arm. "It could take a while in this get-up." She gestured at her onesie and carefully tottered off towards the clubhouse by the entrance to the pitch.   
Crowley sighed and tried to ball up inside his leather jacket. Although the weather was decent enough, dry and as sunny as you could ask of the time of year, standing around doing nothing was chilly business and his fancy, extra thin thermo socks inside his wellies could only work so many miracles while his leather jacket and cashmere henley had not at all been good fashion choices for the occasion either. Not even Marjie's most welcome brandies had numbed him enough to make him unaware that his toes ached a bit. He wondered if Aziraphale had five wooly jumpers on underneath his boiler suit, or if the pudgy bastard was just manly-bloke enough to be warm as he was.  
It was a weirdly hot thought - figuratively - but also bloody annoying.   
"Wanna get out here?" he asked under his breath, nudging Aziraphale with an elbow and waggling a packet of fags.  
"HE DIDN'T MAKE IT, REF, WHAT THE HELL?!"  
Aziraphale covered his ear and winced slightly as Anathema howled and shook her fists at the referee. As he opened his eyes again, Crowley was still standing there, holding out his cigarettes in invitation. Aziraphale looked at the scores. He was hardly one for sports, but everyone was so excited about the Mudgame and Lower was in the lead too, for once!  
"And do what, exactly?" he asked lowly.   
Crowley looked at him like he was slow on the uptake.   
"Find... something or other to hide behind while we light up a smoke," he hissed impatiently, once more shaking the cigarette packet. "C'mon."  
Aziraphale sort of wanted to stay... maybe to make sure Anathema did not get in a fight with the fans from Upper, and certainly to show a bit of community spirit...  
But then there was also Crowley, standing there in his leather jacket and his loosely pulled-back hair, looking like the stock cube of a bad boy, suggesting that he and Aziraphale skedaddle off to goodness knew where...  
Shooting the screaming and hollering Anathema a quick glance Aziraphale shrugged in defeat. All the excitement of the day had him gasping for a cigarette, anyway. The smirk he got as a reward made his knees go wobbly as he trailed after Crowley. As he realised that they were headed towards the edge of the forest, he tried to tell himself that maybe Crowley was just cold and wanted to move about a bit. He was dressed more to impress than for the weather, as always, the ridiculous man...   
And God knew his jeans did look impressive as his slender hips sauntered along in front of Aziraphale...  
Aziraphale's thought that perhaps Crowley wanted to warm up a bit was swiftly debunked as they walked past the edge of Hogback wood and into the shade below the trees. It felt even colder in there, where the sun had not had a chance to touch down all day. As Crowley shook a cigarette out of the packet and lit it while looking semi-interestedly around him, Aziraphale felt like a schoolboy who had snuck off during PE - and wondered what life might have been like if he had ever done that. Just the once... It was hardly like the teacher could have pestered him more than he already had anyway.   
They had gone down a bit of a slope, to a hollow with a few ferns and a large pine tree, the roots of which were spreading shallowly across the ground like tentacles.  
"Yep, yep, yep," Crowley said with the attitude of a connoisseur while kicking his boot against a knot on a root. "Just as I expected. This definitely looks like the woods."  
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Why do we have to hide in here to have a cigarette?" he asked, drawing in a blessed gust of nicotine.   
Crowley shrugged innocently.  
"Gotta set a good example for the kids?" he suggested. "Or summat..." They stood in silence, simply blowing out smoke. "You're not out with your hat in your hand today, then?" Crowley then inquired.  
Aziraphale squirmed a bit.   
"Don't say it like that," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "The kindly landlord of the Sheep and Hill has let me put a tin with a little sign on the counter in the bar tent, in case anyone feels charitable."  
"Drunk people often do," Crowley conceded. "I can't believe you lot! There's a booze-up with people hurting themselves in town, and you don't think to _tell_ me! Poor Brian had to inform me, I am quite frankly shocked and appalled with you all!"  
Aziraphale clicked his tongue.  
"I am sorry," he said. "I just... forget that you don't read. You hide it well."  
Crowley snorted.  
"Years and years of practice," he said bitterly.   
"Well, I'm glad you came," Aziraphale said sincerely. "I mean, it's a village tradition and now people have seen you here," he added hurriedly. "I know you think it's nonsense, but it's good for your public image... I mean, the shop and all that -" He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "I, er..." He took a long drag of his cigarette. "I heard about Brian..." he said through an exhale of smoke. "Bloody business, all that..."  
A little frown line that he had not realised had been sitting between Crowley's brows suddenly became clearer.   
"Oh?" Crowley straightened a bit and squared his shoulders, as if they needed any squaring. "Who from?"   
"From Laura," Aziraphale explained. "His mother," he clarified when 'whu'?' stood clearly written across Crowley's face. "She came to see me yesterday afternoon, after she'd made sure Brian had been grounded and she had finished shouting at her husband..."  
Crowley heaved a sigh.  
"What did she want to see you for? Is she one of yours?"  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"No... No, she's not. I just don't think she knows who else to talk to..." he sighed. "Reckoned I might have some sagely words regarding marriage counseling..." he groaned, pulling a bit of a grimace.  
Crowley sniffed.  
"And? Did you? 'Stay together at all cost', 'divorcees go to Hell', yada-yada?" he asked cooly.   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"I told her the same thing I've told everyone else who's come to me over the years, crying, because their relationship was under duress;" he said. "See a damn therapist and stop telling me about how your... intimate life has dried up..." He shuddered. Laura had seemed in very dire need of opening up to someone and Aziraphale had had a devil of a time trying to gently make her... share a little less. What the Hell sort of advice did people expect _him_ to have about that sort of thing?? He had never even - or. Well. He _had_ , had he not? That night... At Crowley's house... But that was mere carnal weakness. Nothing that one could base anything on. Especially not since the only thing of _that sort_ that had happened since had been half an immediately broken moment that had been so brief that Aziraphale may very well have imagined it.   
Crowley smirked and gave a joyless chuckle, which surprised Aziraphale who had expected the ginger menace to be delighted at the thought of Aziraphale uncomfortable and squirming.  
"Did she mention me?" he asked.   
Aziraphale quirked a brow.  
"Should she?"  
"I may have slightly miscalculated on a few things..." Crowley admitted evasively.  
Aziraphale hummed. He had been just slightly... nervous when he heard about the laundry episode. Not because he thought ill of Crowley, but just... what could come of it, gossip-wise. And the fact that it could potentially make socialising with Crowley... not viable. He had heaved a sigh of relief as Laura had ranted and raved about what a 'great guy' Crowley was, even as 'great guy' seemed like a pathetically shallow description for a man who was complicated and empathetic and frustrating and childish and... brilliant.   
"She mentioned you, yes," Aziraphale said. "All good things, which I'm unsure how you'll feel about," he continued, holding out a placating hand. "She thinks the sun shines out of your you-know-where, for looking after Brian."  
He had only been quipping, but Crowley did indeed look like he was unsure how to feel about it.  
"Seriously?" he said incredulously. "She didn't ask _at all_ if I'm some kinda creep or anything?? She just accepts that it's fine??"   
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.  
"Would you rather she called the police?" he scoffed.   
"I barely know these people!" Crowley argued, affrontedly.   
"If you think it's so suspect, why did you do it in the first place?" Aziraphale tutted.  
Crowley looked like he was about to give a biting reply, but thought better of it. Aziraphale let him get away with silence. The only information he had on Crowley's upbringing was the whole wretched situation surrounding St Jude's and the fact that he most likely had had a sister... Other than that, not a word had come past the redhead's lips. But his apparent continuous soft spot for Brian and his troubles are beginning to form a fuzzy sort of pattern. Silence was probably the better option, Aziraphale decided. Money was not a particularly awkward subject when you had it, but... when you did not... Well. No point in making Crowley talk when he clearly seemed too agitated.   
"Aren't you cold, dressed as a vain fool who doesn't own warm, practical clothes?" he asked instead.   
Crowley's shoulders relaxed a little.   
"Beauty is pain," he shot back.   
"Pain, not pneumonia," Aziraphale retorted primly, stubbing out his cigarette butt in his pocket ashtray. "You look half-frozen."  
For a split second he watched Crowley weigh his options, then a wicked smirk grew on his face as he sauntered over, politely offering up the remains of his own cigarette rather than  
stomping it out on the ground.   
"Defrost me, then," he muttered darkly in Aziraphale's ear as he snapped the ashtray shut.   
Aziraphale snorted.   
"In your dreams," he huffed. He attempted to side-step Crowley, but his foot slipped on a root. He caught his balance through a combination of stepping backwards, towards the tree, and being grabbed by the arm by Crowley. Now he was cornered, locked in Crowley's vise grip.   
"One favour for another," Crowley purred, stepping in close and looking down at Aziraphale.   
Aziraphale craned his head away, trying to peer behind the tree.   
"Crowley, you can't just -! Right in the middle of -"  
"Of the empty, bloody woods," Crowley finished the sentence.   
The woods were very empty... They were fairly hidden as they stood near a steep ledge that had collapsed slightly under its own weight, if anyone came Aziraphale and Crowley would hear them well in advance...   
Except for that branch that had just snapped somewhere just to the left behind Crowley..!  
"What was that??" Aziraphale hissed, his hands coming up to Crowley's chest, although whether they meant to push or grab on was uncertain.  
Crowley calmly looked over his shoulder, resting one hand against the trunk of the tree for support. After a moment he turned back around.  
"There are animals in the wild, wild woods, y'know," he smirked. "Have you been riding scary stories before bedtime, Angel?"   
Aziraphale sputtered.  
"But what if it's -"  
"Nothing, Angel. No one will find you," Crowley cooed darkly, releasing Aziraphale's arm to bring his now free hand to Aziraphale's chin. "You're all on your own..."  
Aziraphale did feel very alone as Crowleys moved in, and to his credit he did turn away... But then Crowley's lips just found his jaw instead and it seemed like such a waste to have that lovely mouth nibbling away at Aziraphale's double chin while a bony knee nudged its way between Aziraphale's thighs, lifting one of his feet slightly off the ground...   
Crowley seemed comfortable with the move in a way that made a corner of Aziraphale's brain vaguely irritated, that anyone else had been in his position before, but he had to pick his battles and instead chose to focus on the warm taste of Crowley's mouth and on wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck for balance, seeing as Crowley might have plenty experience with nudging his knee between other people's thighs, but Aziraphale's thighs had very _little_ experience with that sort of thing...  
There was another _noise_.  
With a 'mmfph!' Aziraphale freed himself from the kiss.  
"There is _something_!" he insisted.   
Crowley shook his head.  
"It's nothing, Angel," he crowed. "We're in the woods, it'll be some fat, little squir-ARGHH!"   
He jumped back with a howl, furiously shaking his hand, the one he had been resting against the tree.   
Aziraphale quickly stepped away from the tree as well.  
"What? What happened?? Did you stab yourself on something or -?"  
"SPIDER," Crowley hissed tensely. "On my hand."  
Aziraphale blinked, then snorted.  
"Oh, you are _joking_ -"  
"I do _not_ joke about spiders, they are _bloody_ gross, it touched me, it was _on my hand_ , ew ew ew!" Crowley whined, squirming about on the spot. "Is it gone??" he asked panically, turning not he spot. "Is it still on me?!"  
Aziraphale groaned.  
"No, it's gone, truly," he said. "Really, you, I'm surprised at you, scared of a little spider? You used to have a pet snake!"  
Crowley stopped squirming to glare furiously instead.  
" _Why_ ," he sneered, his hair all ruffled after his hysterical brushing and flailing. "why is it that people always seem to think that liking one means you have to like the other?? They're not at all the same! Not even remotely! In fact, I'd go as far as to claim that they're the exact _opposite_ of each other!"  
Aziraphale quirked a brow, and simply brushed a few stray curls behind Crowley's ear. The gesture seemed to calm the overwrought ginger marginally. From the cricket pitch, a triumphant roar rose. Seemed like the game was over. Hopefully Lower had managed to stay in the lead.  
"Come on, dearest," Aziraphale said gently but firmly, the moment rather broken after seeing Crowley jump about in a panic. "Let's go see if our team managed to finally scrape in a bit of glory for themselves. I believe you've had quite enough nature for one day, anyway."  
"I don't like nature..." Crowley whined as they made their way back towards the cricket pitch. "I woke up at three in the morning last night! Sounded like there was a kid chucking up in my yard!"  
Aziraphale frowned.  
"And... was there?"  
Crowley shook his head.  
"No, but I guess I fucking finally know what the bloody fox says!"   
Aziraphale clearly did not understand the reference, or he would have groaned tiredly, but fortunately that meant that what Crowley got instead was a sun-bright giggle that almost managed to banish the cold from his icy toes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahah! I bet you thought this had dried up. Died out. Retired itself unannounced.  
> And I can only apologise. I will try my darnedest to do better from now on, but this one was just tricky to write... I'm not sure if it's still a bit odd, but it is what it is, it's here, I hope you'll enjoy or that I can at least tie you over until I get the next ch going!


	32. Chapter 32

_Wednesday, 13th September_

Crowley was _so_ ready to close up for the day. Just twenty five more minutes and he'd be _done_ and he could fuck off home, unwind... He needed to unwind. He could not quite put a finger on from what, but he just needed... to bloody _unwind_. He had been feeling increasingly skittish over the course of the last couple of days and minding the shop on this particular day had seemed like an absolute chore. It always was, literally, he supposed, if he wanted to actually _be running_ a shop and all, but... today had been grueling.   
What could well have been Adam's curly head of hair zoomed past the shop window, to the tune of a wildly ringing bike bell, while Crowley chewed on his nails - and immediately received the punishment for it as the tip of his tongue was coated with bitter flower sap - and the restlessness in his gut crept out into his skin, making it itch strangely. Where did a kid have to go in such a hurry, Crowley wondered. All they lay ahead of them was growing up. To some it would come much sooner than they had expected too...   
Crowley ground his teeth and checked his watch. Quarter past five... Should he pull an Aziraphale? Just... close up, bugger off, be enigmatically absent, leaving people wanting..?  
Humming tensely to himself, trying to ignore this newfound _itch_ of his, he started wiping down the shop counter and swept a few stray stem cut-offs into the bin and got stuck into counting up the till, willing the entire World to not even _think_ about popping in now for any last minute wahoos. Just as he had made up his mind that he was in fact rubbish at running a business and that skiving off sounded way more fun than braving it out, the Universe decided to put him in his place;  
Brian's mum - Lucy? Lynn? - walked up the front steps, after checking her reflection in the shop window and setting her top to rights. She had on a pair of leopard spotted leggings - seemed that Brian had not been kidding when he said she liked leopard print - and a black tank top under an acid washed denim jacket.   
"Hello," Crowley greeted, smiling on the outside and with a strange sense of dread that he was going to cringe himself to death, on the inside. Something in Lila's smile as she walked up to the counter was... foreboding.   
"Hi..." Leah almost seemed a little out of breath. "I just wanted to, eh... say thank you. Again..." She wrapped a lock of her shockingly box red hair around her finger. "I didn't really get a chance to... I did look for you at the Mudgame," she added quickly. "but I didn't see you anywhere."  
 _I was out hiding behind the proverbial bike shed... Doing what I've always done behind bike sheds; smoking fags and snogging... well, other fags.   
_"Pity that," Crowley managed, still smiling casually, while his brain felt like it had folded up like a badly flipped omelette, frustrating and jumbled. "Don't worry yourself about it, you've already thanked me."  
Lexie's eyes were cartoonishly round.  
"It was just so sweet what you did for Brian," she said intently. She twisted the lock of hair further around her finger and scoffed softly. "I'm really embarrassed it was necessary, but it was lovely of you to step up like that."  
"Someone had to," Crowley noted, his smile faltering a little and how voice taking on a terse note.  
"Exactly!" Lily waffled on. "And you did. You didn't even have to at all, you barely know my boy -"  
"Yeah, it was _probably a bit weird_ , come to think of it," Crowley suggested pointedly.  
Lorri clearly did not catch his meaning at all.  
"- but it's so nice to have great neighbours like that!" she continued dreamily, having just about tied a knot on her hair at this stage, the way she kept twirling and twirling.  
"Yep, I'm so so great. Mr Great, that's me..." Crowley ground out.  
Lindsey giggled like he had said something absolutely hilarious.  
"No kidding!" She fluttered her mascara-caked lashes at him. "So if there's ever _anything_ I could do for you in return, you'll let me know, yeah?"  
Crowley cocked his head.  
"Yah. Sure. Promise," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes at Lianna behind his dark glasses.   
Leonora nodded eagerly.  
"Great! Maybe we could figure something out about that gorgeous hair of yours? You could stop by the salon and I could give you a nice treatment of some kind?" she shrugged innocently. "I know you're busy and all, but I can keep it open longer if you'd need me to..."  
Crowley was about to explain that he had made himself very good friends with a Toni & Guy place in Oxford and that he, with all due respect, was not about to let just any random village hairdresser get their hands in his locks, when village life decided to shake things up and see if maybe it could make Crowley cry a little;  
"Mr Crowley!"  
"Mr Taylor! Good afternoon!" Crowley said briskly, still side-eying Lee and this very odd conversation they had just been having. "How can I help you on this fine day?"  
Louise did a poor job of hiding her disappointment at being interrupted.  
"I'll let you get back to work," she said, her eyes gleaming at Crowley. "I need to get back as well, I just thought I'd pop out since there was a bit of a window in my bookings..." she continued awkwardly, shooting Arpee a look and making for the door.   
"I'll be needing a word with you as well, Mrs Masterson!" Arpee yapped.  
Crowley actually felt a little sorry for Laverne as he watched the spark be snuffed out in her eyes.  
"Now what?" she groaned.  
Arpee looked not at all pleased with her unenthused tone.  
"Your son," he huffed. "and his cronies! They have vandalised the village sign! Again! This is the second time in six months! This will not do -!"  
Libby looked like the proverbial camel had, if not broken its back, then at least a dire need for a physiotherapist.  
"I'm so sorry about that, Mr Tyler, I'll talk to Brian -"  
"And one may then hope that he might one day listen, too!" Arpee waffled on, looking just about ready to burst a vessel.   
Letitia looked like she might burst into tears. Crowley figured that he would have to be the one to hand out comforting shoulder pats and decided that a spot of damage control was due since his comforting shoulder pats were quite rare collectors items and he would like to keep it that way, rather than dole them out left and right;    
"Mr Taylor," he said loudly, and something in his enunciation made him think of Aziraphale. "have you come into my shop just to verbally accost a browsing customer, on a matter completely unrelated to my person or my business?" He folded his arms over his chest and tried to take the poshness down a notch. "If that's the case I'm going to have to explain to you, sir, same as I do to all these dissatisfied sorts who come here hunting for my temp delivery driver because he has axed their various electronic devices, that I have little to no interest in people conducting their private quarrels on my premises!"  
Alright, so apparently he was slowly turning into Aziraphale with no option to turn it off...  
Linda looked like her knickers could double as an aquarium and Arpee looked like his blood pressure was headed for the stratosphere.  
"While I am here, I also wanted to add, Mr Crowley, that your infernal box is at least four inches too far out on the pavement! It is obstructing the way for pedestrians!" the old man scoffed. "See to it!" And with the he marched out, ears burning red, untied his dog and strode off.   
Lizzy looked at Crowley like he had hung the moon, but before she had a chance to open her mouth and sing his praises, the shop door opened again, this time making way for Mr Moneypenny.  
"Hello, Laura."  
Leanne shot Mr Moneypenny a very different smile from the one she had been giving Crowley.  
Curious, that.  
"Hey, Arthur," she said tiredly.  
"Did I see Arpee storming out of here?" Arthur - _Arthur_ \- asked, pointing out towards the street.  
Laney nodded with a sigh.  
"Yes... Seems like the Them have been up to no good again..." she groaned. "Been writing stuff on the village sign, they have... Again."  
Arthur hummed.  
"I can imagine Arpee would take issue with that," he said, giving Crowley a commiserating look. "I did see it on my way home... But I don't think the kids did it." He shot Luella a placating look. "so maybe don't go too hard on Brian, eh?"  
"Did you ask Adam about it?" Lilian asked.  
Arthur nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  
"I did, I did. Made a quick stop at home to drop off the car and caught him in the door. He swears it wasn't Them. And say what you will of my boy," he said jovially, with a look towards Crowley as if Crowley would know anything about it, waggling a finger. "but he doesn't lie, our Adam. If you ask him, he gives you a straight answer, one way or another, and he does the time for his crime."  
"I dunno about Brian lately, it's like he's been holding back..." Liza sighed.  
 _Hardly surprising, d'you think??  
_ Crowley watched a similar sentiment briefly flash in Arthur's eyes.  
"Yes, well... It's not always easy talking to your parents, I suppose..." Arthur offered hesitantly.   
"At least he has good people around him," Lola said warmly, smiling at Crowley, whose itch seemed to flare up while he smiled back evenly.   
"Ah... Yes... Hm, speaking of which, it was you I'm here to see, Mr Crowley," Arthur said chummily.   
Lorraine looked at her watch.  
"Oh, gosh, look at the time, I've a perm in three minutes!" She took the time to flash Crowley one last smile. "Anything at all I can help you with, you just let me know," she said charmingly.  
Crowley managed to produce some sort of noise and halfheartedly lift his hand as she waved goodbye and hurried off, leaving Crowley and Arthur to enjoy a spot of 'so that just happened' silence.  
Arthur cleared his throat.  
"Well..."  
Crowley was not about to dwell on whatever _that thing_ had been.   
"You wanted to see me?" he asked, leaning both hands on the counter. "I'm guessing about some sorta flowers?"  
Arthur blinked out of whatever train of thought he had had going.  
"Yes, I was after some flowers for Deidre." He stuck his hands deeper in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet a bit, looking rather smug. "The bunch I got her for our anniversary really - ahem - did the trick..."  
Crowley smirked.   
_Yep, yep, yep, I can charm a lady from a mile away with flowers bought by someone else. Damn, I'm good.  
_ "Oh, really? Whacha get in return?" he snickered. Bit of banter to take his mind of the itch under his skin, yes please.   
Arthur's ears went a bit pink.   
"Plenty, shall we say," he said flusteredly, but clearly pleased with himself. "But, uh, perhaps this time... not quite as big?" he tried carefully.  
Crowley's smirk was teetering on a grin, just for the sheer joy of prying. And also because his flowers did fucking _tricks_. Which he knew they would, but an ego boost was always appreciated.  
"Steal a whole night's kip off ya, did she?" he crowed. "You about to get in trouble at work for never sleeping on your own time anymore?"  
 _You are so damn welcome.  
_ Crowley had not been sleeping too well either, lately, which was a right bugger since napping was his favourite hobby. He wished it could have been Aziraphale keeping him awake, but that was unfortunately not the case, not even in thought. Crowley just seemed to keep waking up and tossing and turning for an hour at a time before finally drifting off again.   
Arthur chuckled and shrugged a bit.  
"Ah, I wouldn't say that's been an issue - But, you know, even tax exemptions don't go on forever."  
Crowley held up a placating hand.  
"I'll get you laid for under forty quid, no worries, mister."  
Arthur gave a sort of sputtering, shocked kind of laugh while Crowley got stuck into work. Apparently Arthur had had such a delightful time chit-chatting when he last came to shop that he decided to go for another round of the stuff;  
"You went to the Mudgame, then?" he asked while Crowley worked.  
"I did, yeah..."  
"Fancy cricket much?"   
Crowley briefly paused and looked down his own front. Absolutely nothing he saw suggested that he would 'fancy cricket much'. Or a little. Or at all.  
"It's just that someone thought it'd be nice to ask," Arthur continued when Crowley gave no reply. "if you'd be interested in joining the team."  
Crowley paused again, this time a lot less briefly.  
 _Is that someone you?_   
"Why?" was the first thing out of his mouth. "Why would you think - Do I look like I've played a sport in my entire adult life??" he asked, holding his arms out and turning on his heel to face Arthur.   
Arthur looked Crowley up and down and seemed a bit lost for words.  
"I'm hardly Alastair Cook myself," he said, whatever the Hell that meant. "It was just that your enthusiasm was noted at the game. Positively, of course," he added quickly. "It's always nice with a bit of vocal support. So we thought we'd ask..."  
"By those standards you should be asking 'Nathema," Crowley noted tersely. "She was about to go out there with the folding chair."  
As expected Arthur looked the sort of guilty a reasonably non-reactionary man with a modern and capable wife would look when he knew that he was being a bit of a prick.  
"It is a bit of a..."  
"Boy's thing?" Crowley asked unimpressedly, dropping a hip.  
Silence stretched out between them - unfortunately, since it had done a half decent job of distracting Crowley from his _itch_ \- until Arthur blinked a few times then folded his hands behind his back.   
"I'll let the others know it wasn't really your cuppa..." he said, with a slightly chastised look on his face.  
Crowley hummed.  
"It's hardly a great loss to the team anyway," he shrugged. "I mean, getting pissed and rolling around in the mud I can do, but I couldn't hit a volleyball with tennis racket."  
Arthur chuckled.  
"Oh, well. I'll tell the others," he said. He looked around the shop a bit. "So Laura came to talk to you?" he then asked. Casually. Very casually. "She seemed... pleased to see you..."  
Crowley shuddered slightly.   
"Yeahp..." he popped.  
"Been having a spot of bother at home, lately," Arthur continued gravely. "You'd know... I heard you had to help Brian out of a spot of trouble."  
"Oh, you heard about that too," Crowley said with sardonic cheerfulness. Had Lacy been telling everyone and their dog about that??  
"She and Deidre talk sometimes," Arthur explained. "Things have not been easy for the Mastersons... But I say we just... give them time to sort themselves out." He nodded to himself. "Once Callum finds his feet, it'll all right itself again, I'm sure..."  
There was something in his voice as he said it, a sort of... _friendly suggestion_ directed at Crowley that he not _interfere_.  
Gag...  
"There's nothing I'd want more than for Lorelei and Colin to settle things," Crowley said smoothly, tying up the bouquet while his skin itched and crawled so badly it almost made his head spin. "Believe me." He walked out to the counter and wrapped the bouquet in paper like it was personally at fault for this new turn of the conversation. "Nothing _at all_." He put the bouquet down, all done and dusted, glaring at Arthur.   
Arthur cleared his throat.  
"Ah... Yes. Alright. That's... nice of you to say..?" he stammered, clearly struggling to wrap the conversation up discreetly. "Very, hrm, very good."  
Crowley was about to demand that Arthur pay him thirty-eight quid and bugger off with his flowers so Crowley could go home and just _not deal_ with people, potentially without wearing pants, when a white blond head of hair caught his eye outside the shop window - and then proceeded to bob its way up the front steps and into the shop.  
"Oh. Hello Arthur," Aziraphale said, somewhat tersely, nodding his head.  
"Afternoon, Father," Arthur said merrily.   
"I just needed a quick word with Crowley," Aziraphale said. He looked a bit... irritated. Not at all nervous or flushed, as if he was sneaking about... Crowley would have quite liked it if he had been sneaking... As it was, he did not feel ready to deal with _irritated..._  
"Sounds ominous," Arthur clucked. "I was just about to pay and be on my way, so I won't hold you for long."  
"Ah well, but y'know, can't rush good customer service," Crowley said, his eyes locked with Aziraphale's.   
The blond quirked a brow, but said absolutely nothing.  
"Erph, I got that box set, by the way!" Crowley said chipperly, dragging his eyes away from Aziraphale.  
"Oh, with the bonus episodes!" Arthur asked excitedly. "Already? I'm impressed you found it so easily."  
"Finding it wasn't really that difficult," Crowley said modestly, foregoing the tale of badgering Anathema to do the googling for him. "But you would blush if you knew what I had to pay for it. The absolute blood of a virgin, that thing cost, and where the Hell do you find one of those these days?" he sighed.  
It had not really been meant as a jab, but the twitch that went through Aziraphale's entire body was unmistakable and his glare went from annoyed to murderous. Crowley was not exactly one for recreational strangulation, but he would be willing to meet Aziraphale in the middle on the matter.  
Luckily, Arthur had his back turned towards Aziraphale and was busy digging bank notes out of his wallet.  
"Headed home to watch them tonight, then?" he asked while Crowley dug out his two quid of change.  
Crowley shrugged. He had been feeling antsy all day, just sort of... uneasy in his own skin, and it had only worsened over the course of the last twenty minutes or so.   
"Not sure I'm in the mood for screen time tonight," he said.  
Arthur was clearly impatient to get his hands on the thing, but Crowley could tell he tried his best to conceal his disappointment.  
"Quite right, yes, there's a time and place," he conceded, picking up his bouquet of flowers and pushing the bank notes at Crowley. "I'd better get home with these," he said, waving the flowers about.   
"At 'er, tiger," Crowley jeered, side-eyeing Aziraphale, who himself looked not unlike a tiger crouching.   
Arthur looked somewhat disturbed at having that sort of comment directed at him in front of the village priest, but shrugged modestly with a smirk.  
"We'll see, I suppose," he said. He had his hand on the door handle, but then turned back once more, just as Aziraphale had started to pull in a deep breath to have a go at Crowley.  
"D'you know... Deidre's out with the bookclub Friday evening," Arthur said. "Perhaps you could come over and we could watch the bonus episodes?"  
Getting it on with Brian's mum sounded marginally more appealing, at least in Crowley's ears, and perhaps Aziraphale sensed his reluctance towards the suggestion, because his face went from storm cloud to brightly sunny;  
"Oh! That sounds like a fun thing to do, if you're going to be watching them anyway!" he said cheerfully. "They do have a lovely house," he continued, patting Crowley on the arm. "You'll like it, I'm sure. Especially Deidre's flowers out front."  
Crowley whipped around to glare at him, just in time to catch the ever so slightest twitch in the lower lid of an innocently round, blue eye.   
_If you weren't so damned attractive when you're being petty, I'd be making that traitor mouth of yours pay..!  
_ "Yeahhh... Sounds great," he ground out, wondering if maybe he would at least be able to sneak in a few hours of kip in Arthur's boring company in front of the screen. He could always rewatch the episodes in his own sweet time later on.  
Arthur looked like he was very much trying to contain his excitement.  
"That's a deal, then!" he said. "So, uh... Friday. Shall we say... Between five and half past?"  
Aziraphale's hand, which was still resting comradely on Crowley's shoulder might as well have been crammed up his arse, controlling his mouth. Crowley knew exactly what Kermit felt like when he replied;  
"I'll be there."  
Arthur nodded.  
"Right. You bring the box set and I'll organise some sort of snack, shall I?"  
"Great..."  
"I'll see you Friday, then!"  
Crowley's face was cramping from holding the smile on until Arthur was out of sight, then he rounded on Aziraphale.  
"You're a piece of -"  
"And you're a nasty little boy who's been going around drawing on the village sign again," Aziraphale cut him off, in an irritatingly superior tone, his fury seemingly gone, now that he had been vindicated after Crowley's subtle dig.   
Crowley blew a raspberry.  
"Objection, your honour. Slander and libel," he said dismissively, folding his arms over his chest. "Where's your evidence, hm?"  
"You do have form," Aziraphale argued.  
"Circumstantial," Crowley bit out. "Means and motive?"  
"I imagine the motive was having a bit of a laugh," Aziraphale scoffed.   
Crowley snorted.  
"Funny, little 'oh, let's change one letter so it means something else' isn't really my style of fun," he said.  
"It was last time," Aziraphale bickered.  
"No, it wasn't," Crowley said, sauntering off to sweep the cut-off stems from Arthur's bouquet into the bin, before resting his palms on the counter and meeting Aziraphale's gaze. "because I was - and still am - fucking dyslexic."  
Aziraphale's smug scowl fell.  
"Oh..." He frowned. "But - last time... you said..."  
"I never admitted to anything," Crowley said emphatically. "You just assumed I was playing coy."  
 _A thief believes everybody steals_.  
Aziraphale blinked owlishly.  
"But you - you cleaned it up..?" he stammered. His confused face slowly lit up. "Well... That really was very sweet -"  
"No, I didn't," Crowley cut him off.  
Aziraphale's confusion returned. It was like watching a puppy wonder why the Hell it could not get to the other dog in the mirror.   
"You _said,_ " Aziraphale insisted. "that -"  
"I said you'd have to go and see for yourself in the morning," Crowley reminded him patiently.  
"And it was clean!" Aziraphale protested.  
"Yeah. I went to have a look at what I was supposed to have done and someone had already washed it off," Crowley shrugged.  
He watched the real set of events dawn on Aziraphale and then a pout so mighty it could damn well nearly be crowned the next king of England bloomed on the blond's face.  
"You lied!"   
Crowley chortled.  
"I did no such thing," he quarreled, grinning. "You just made a whole bunch of assumptions," he continued, pointing an admonishing finger at Aziraphale. "I never admitted to vandalising the sign, I never said that I had _personally_ cleaned it. All I did was bring a bottle of plonk over to your place whereafter you tricked me into drinking nearly the whole bottle myself!"  
Aziraphale continued pouting - would have been a disaster if he had stopped, so, _good_ \- but he also looked a little guilty. He tried his best to stick his nose in the air, but his feet were shuffling a bit and his hands were wringing themselves to pieces. He mumbled something indistinguishable and kept pouting, not meeting Crowley's gaze.  
"So, uh... you didn't... draw on the sign then," he concluded after a beat. "That's... good, then. I won't need to spend my precious time on telling you off. Splendid." _  
_Not getting told off should have been a relief, but Crowley thought to himself that maybe a good... _firm_ scolding would have been just the thing he needed to distract himself from whatever he body, increasingly, believed i was going through with that nervous squirming under his skin...  
"I guess for once your accusations were groundless..." he said regretfully.  
Aziraphale was a walking chin roll with pink ears.   
"I'll... I'll be off then, I guess..." he said slowly, looking a bit lost. "You'll, uh... you'll have things to do... Closing up for the day and all..."   
Crowley was about to suggest that he stay, go for another cup of chocolate thingiething, have a bit of a chinwag in the upstairs office perhaps - in fact, he was about to stake the claim that Aziraphale owed him one after falsely accusing him of misbehaving, but Aziraphale was already side-stepping towards the door.  
"I mean, yeah, I've got a few things to do," Crowley tried valiantly, because pleading was just _so uncool_.   
Aziraphale nodded.   
"I'll see you around, my dear."  
Something inside Crowley _-_ or maybe it was actually his skin, it as hard to tell - desperately tried to lurch forward after Aziraphale as the blond opened the shop door, after flipping the sign around with a shy, little smile that Crowley could have drowned in.  
He swallowed hard and bobbed his head.  
"See ya..."  
Aziraphale scurried off, leaving Crowley almost heaving for air, his skin was crawling worse than ever, nearly burning.

_A few hours later_

"Crowley?"   
"Hhhi."   
Aziraphale blinked up at Crowley, who held up a bottle of wine, shaking it lightly.  
"Can I come in?"   
Aziraphale took a step back.  
"You may, but, uh... I'm on call tonight. For the hospice." Which explained why Aziraphale for once was dressed in his clericals. "So if the phone rings..."  
Crowley shook his head.  
"Ach, nah, that's fine. Totally fine. I just figured - traditions and all, right?" he said, doing his utmost to not _ramble_. Once he had closed up and gone home, he had stalked around the cottage, like a caged animal, his skin still bloody _itching_. He had taken a hot shower, and had then tortured himself with a cold one too, scrubbing until his skin was pink, but to no avail. After drying up, he had just bounced off the walls until a few clever sentences had formed in his head, urging him to grab a bottle of red and pop out for the evening. "Y'know, someone draws on the village sign, you blame me, I show up at your place with plonk. If you're on stand-by I guess we'll just have to walk the whole line and let me drink the entire damn thing again, eh?"   
Aziraphale giggled lightly, closing the door behind Crowley.  
"I suppose..." He cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry that I, uh... blamed you," he said, looking way more embarrassed than Crowley reckoned he had any reason to be. "I wasn't... thinking. As I've said, I just seem to... keep forgetting about -"  
"Doesn't matter, Angel," Crowley cut him off, toeing off his shoes and hanging his jacket by the door. "I can take it."   
_You were using it as an excuse to come and see me, weren't you?_ _Can't be mad at that.  
_ Aziraphale smiled, still looking a bit sheepish.   
"I'll get us some glasses and the bottle opener, shall I?" he asked. He gestured towards the sofa. "You make yourself comfortable."  
Crowley flopped down in his usual spot and tried not to _vibrate_. He still felt like he had had fourteen espressos in a row, but at least seeing Aziraphale was giving his nervous energy something to focus on.   
"I was invited to join the cricket team," he announced loudly.   
"Oh?" A wine cork popped and Aziraphale returned to the sitting room, open bottle and glasses in hand. "And what did you say?"  
Crowley removed his glasses, just so he could better glare disbelievingly at Aziraphale.  
"What the Hell do you think me and my li'l faggoty wrists and my skinny ankles said??" he asked.   
Aziraphale scoffed and nestled into the opposite end of the sofa, holding out a glass towards Crowley.   
"You never know!" he fussed, wiggling to get comfortable against a worn throw cushion and muring himself a glass of wine, before offering the bottle to Crowley.   
"What about you?" Crowley asked as he filled his glass. "How come you aren't on the team?"  
Aziraphale hummed and sipped his wine.  
"They've never asked," he said, his eyes somewhat distant as he sucked wine off his top lip.   
Crowley frowned.  
"Why not??" he sputtered. "You bowl like a pro! They should be begging you to join up."  
Aziraphale shrugged.  
"I've just never found being able to throw a ball something worth bragging about," he said snootily. "I'm hardly one for sports, anyway."  
Crowley rolled his eyes.  
"They asked _me_ ," he argued. "Me and my li'l fagotty wrists! Talk about a shot in the dark," he scoffed, waggling his hands about, wrists limp. "They may as well ask you to join up."  
Aziraphale sniffed derisively.  
"I'm sure they're concerned that having the village priest on the team would put a dampener on the locker room banter," he said with a disapproving line around his mouth. "Ruin the good times with the lads..."  
Crowley sneered.  
"They'd be begging you to come put a dampener on it if they let me in," he said menacingly. He flashed his biggest grin at Aziraphale who squealed in delighted horror. "I'd banter them straight into therapy -!"  
"You're a menace!" Aziraphale squawked.  
"Nonsense! I am an endearing rascal at the very most," Crowley said, knocking back his glass of wine and helping himself to another. The wine felt like it should, technically, be helping against his itch, but it was so minimal that he could hardly feel it. "And you'd do well to remember that! I'm not nearly as guilty as you'd like to think."  
Aziraphale's cheeks turned a bit pink once more.  
"Yes, well..." he muttered, looking a bit naked as he did not even have a collar to retreat into at the moment. "I'd like to know who it is, though," he said after a moment of embarrassed sulking.   
"So would Arpee," Crowley said with a slight burp. "Turned up at my shop today to throw a fit about it."  
Aziraphale frowned and fluffed up adorably.   
"He accused you as well? Really, now -!"  
Crowley waved a hand about.  
_You're so pretty when you're being a hypocrite..._  
"Nah nah, he came in to yell at Artie and Laila about their misbehaving kids. But apparently Adam swears it wasn't, so Artie's pretty sure it must've been someone else -"  
"Who's Laila?"  
Crowley shrugged aggitatedly.  
"Brian's mum. Whatever her name is..."  
"Oh, Laura! She was there as well?"  
"Yeahppp. My shop was the place to be this afternoon. You'd know," Crowley noted dryly.  
"Why was Laura there?" Aziraphale asked.   
"To _thank me for all my help_ ," Crowley sighed dreamily with a smarmy smile while his itching went up a notch. "Wanted to know if there as _anything_ she could for me in return..." he finished darkly.   
Aziraphale frowned.  
"Well... We all need haircuts," he said carefully, in a very measured voice.   
_G'won, Angel, get huffy, please, it would actually make me feel so much better...  
_ "Yes... Offered to keep the salon open for me and all... Wot with my work hours and all..." Crowley added tellingly.   
Aziraphale had been very studiously not looking at him, but now his eyes darted over to meet Crowley's. They were, however, not filled with a ruffled look of 'hands off' but with worry.   
"Oh no... Really?" Aziraphale tutted and groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You've got to be joking..."  
"Nope. You know me and the bored wives. I just lure them in with my animal magnetism," Crowley said joylessly, sagging in his seat and taking another gulp of wine while his left foot bopped furiously against the floor.  
Aziraphale puffed up.  
"You cannot be - you're not _actually_ going to -" he sputtered.  
Crowley shrugged.  
"I'm not doing anything! I'm just minding my own business... And I guess she's been minding my business, too. Hardly my fault," he said dismissively. He gave a joyless snort of laughter. "I'm sure you'll be glad to know that Artie's already been warned me off." He scoffed. "Told me it was best to just leave things to settle down on their own and not interfere..."   
Aziraphale blew out a deep breath.  
"And he's quite right, too," he said firmly.   
"She has the right kinda idea, though, if you ask me," Crowley sniffed tersely.  
Aziraphale snorted.  
"Infidelity is the answer, according to you?" he asked snippily. "Why am I not surprised..." he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes and sipping his wine.   
"I'll give you a little tip," Crowley said agitatedly, while an entire dam colony of ants seemed to making anew homes for themselves under his skin. "The grass is greener where you bloody water it! If she's looking for a bit of appreciation elsewhere, it's probably because she's not getting it at home -"  
"Surely the same goes for her," Aziraphale cut him off, frowning deeply.  
Crowley snorted.  
"Are you seriously telling me you don't think she's been trying hard enough with her current fella? He daytime drinks and can't even keep a set of clean clothes on the back of their poor kid! If she wants to go looking for a different hose somewhere else -"  
"Oh, must you be vulgar about it?" Aziraphale snapped, setting down his wine glass.   
"Must everyone around here be so damn invested in keeping up the status quo??" Crowley shot back, pushing up from the sofa to stalk about the room instead when he could no longer sit still. "Her home life is falling apart! Her kid is blaming himself for not helping out enough while her husband is boozing and she's working overtime! The fact that she thinks I'm such a top bloke after doing _one_ little thing for her kid tells you everything you need to know! And you're all contended to sit here and do nothing while telling me that I can't do anything either, even when it wasn't even me who initiated -"  
"We can't interfere!" Aziraphale retorted loudly. "They're grown people and they'll have to sort things out for themselves! We can't just ruin their marriage! And that includes you!" He turned in his seat to level a furious glance at Crowley. "Whatever Laura thinks she'd like, you just - keep yourself to yourself!" he finished with a sputter.   
"You just said she's an adult. She can figure out for herself what she wants to do!" Crowley argued. "And if she wants to look for pastures greener, I say good for her! Useless husbands are given way too many chances in this World and that's a fact," he sneered. "She has every right to grab her kid by the hand and fuck off."  
Aziraphale sighed.  
"This is only because of the financial issues they're having," he said, clearly straining to keep his voice calm. "Up until now, they've ben perfectly fine -"  
"How do you know?" Crowley shot back while his skin was about to pack it suitcases and just _leave_ all together. "I mean, _really_? How'd anyone know what's been going on behind closed doors?"  
"Brian would've said something by now if anything was 'going on'," Aziraphale said.  
Crowley snorted.  
"You think?" he said sceptically while considering if setting himself on fire might alleviate the restlessness under his skin, as he paced back and forth on Aziraphale's worn rug. "You actually think he'd tell anyone??"  
"He'd have told his friends, at least," Aziraphale said stubbornly. "There's no way Adam would've leave on of his friends behind like that, he would tell his parents immediately -"  
Crowley shook his head.  
"It doesn't work like that," he said darkly. "Kids don't admit to neglect or abuse. They just don't."  
He had said... nothing at all, really, but as the way Aziraphale looked up at him made him feel like he had said far too much.   
"Brian's not being abused..." he said quietly. "Or even neglected. He's safe. His home life is just a bit messy at the moment..."  
"How'd you know?" Crowley asked again, folding his arms over his chest.  
"We would know," Aziraphale said firmly, as if that was an answer.  
Crowley shook his head, refusing to go in circles.  
"And if you did?" he said. "What would you do? Other than twiddle your thumbs and look the other way, like one does, because it's not your place to interfere, so sure, the kids a bit thin and bruised but what the Hell can you -"  
"That is just not true!"   
Aziraphale had gotten up from the sofa as well, frowning at Crowley.   
Crowley chuckled joylessly.  
"Yes, Angel. It is," he said. "That's how it goes... You say nothing, they say nothing, Mummy isn't brave or smart enough to even think about leaving..."  
He knew the feeling all too well. The endless arguments, the bruises and the fear that someone might notice, because what the Hell were you supposed to say if they asked, anyway, and the feeling of endlessly falling through darkness while the walls closed in on you and your skin itched with adrenaline from constantly worrying and thinking and worrying and thinking -  
"Brian has said something," Aziraphale said, standing awkwardly by the sofa. "He came to you."  
"And now I'm trying to -"  
"You're not -" Aziraphale took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a second. "You're not trying in the right ways."  
"At least I'm trying to do _something_ -" Crowley spat.  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
"Where would they go?" he asked.  
"Oh, who cares?!" Crowley shouted. "Anywhere!"  
"Brian would lose everything he knows."  
"Including his loser dad. Good bloody riddance."   
"He'd lose his friends, too," Aziraphale said.  
"Tragic as that may seem -" Crowley started.  
"Deidre told me something," Aziraphale said. "Just today... Adam had asked if maybe Brian could come live with them for a while..." The blond tutted softly. "Said he wouldn't mind sharing his parents if Brian needed them..."  
Crowley growled frustratedly.  
"How bad are things when your ten year-old friends are suggesting placing you outside the home??" he asked.  
Aziraphale smiled sadly.  
"I know... But, Crowley..." He closed the distance between them and rested a warm hand on Crowley's shoulder. "please just trust me when I say that things aren't the same with Brian." He snorted tersely. "And I dare say things aren't the same with his parents either."  
Crowley was _not_ going to cry, purely out of principle.   
"Can we at least agree that someone will have to _do_ something, at some point?" he asked through gritted teeth. "That we can't just leave kids to circle the drain alone?"  
"That's exactly the point I'm trying to make," Aziraphale said. "We're all watching Brian. But you're seeing ghosts, dear."  
 _We're all watching_...  
It felt like being plunged into to cool water. The itch in Crowley's skin seemed to wilt, collapse onto itself, with its ghost remaining, still squirming and burning, but the agitated sting that he made him want to claw at the wallpaper gone. Instead his brain started feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges, the fuzz seemingly radiating from the Aziraphale's hand against his shoulder.  
"I wouldn't put money on their marriage, though," he said, refusing to stop fighting just yet.  
"That may well be," Aziraphale said. "but promise me you won't get tangled up in this. You don't wanna be caught up in village drama, trust me."   
Crowley sighed.  
"I won't," he said reluctantly. There was no real saying no to Aziraphale's puppy eyes. "She's way below my pay bracket, anyway."  
Aziraphale scoffed and rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, quirking ever so slightly. The rude grimace was oddly comforting. At least Crowley knew where he had the blond when he thought he was being low-brow and ridiculous.  
"You can't seriously be telling me you'd willfully wreck someone's marriage, anyway," Aziraphale said. "Inadvertently I'm sure you've caused half the divorces in London, but fully on purpose..."  
"I -" Crowley cut himself off, but the words forced their way despite his best efforts; "I'd've given anything for my folks to split. Their relationship was busted anyway, I just wanted to get out of the ruins of it..."  
Aziraphale's disdainful look melted away.   
"I don't thin Brian's quite at that stage yet," he said, eyes soft. "But in case he gets there, let's not complicate matters even more, so we can keep an eye on him if it does happen?"  
Something deep inside Crowley, a scrawny, little kid who no one had bothered to keep an eye on, stopped thrashing and wailing and instead heaved a sigh of relief. Finally now that the noise was gone, Crowley identified it, by the negative it left behind, as what had been keeping him awake lately.  
"A'ight. Fair 'nuff."   
Aziraphale's eyes were so, so round and so, so blue as they peered up at him, seemingly reading things in Crowley's eyes that he did not recall ever allowing to go to press. The hand on his shoulder squeezed a little more firmly and pink lips formed into a tentative smile.   
"It's not the same, all this," he said. "I... I promise you."   
Entire books could be filled with all the unsaid things that followed that sentence. Crowley was leaning forward, his brain increasingly fuzzy and his heart speeding up, just wanting Aziraphale to fill head head completely with candy floss -   
And then the bloody phone rang.   
It took Aziraphale a split second of staring desperately up at Crowley to pull himself together, then he pulled away and grabbed the receiver of his old rotary phone.  
"Father A, Tadfield? Absolutely. I'm leaving at once." He hung up. "That was the hospice," he said briskly, pulling a dog collar out of his pocket and buttoning it on. "I have to go."  
Crowley's brain felt like it was wading through syrup, trying to catch up.   
"Uhhh... Yeah. Sure. Right." Crowley cleared his throat while Aziraphale with swift movements whipped out a dog collar and buttoned it onto his shirt. Seeing him get all suited up as a priest was not exactly alluring, but the efficiency of it all was... not at all unattractive. How deft and no-nonsense his fingers were as he folded down the collar and straightened his shirt cuffs. "Is it serious?" Crowley asked, to try and distract himself from how his body temperature seemed to have gone up a notch or two. "The... job you're going to?"  
Aziraphale pulled on his jacket and quirked a brow.  
"It's a hospice, dear," he said, rather deadpan. "It is by definition quite serious."   
_Doh..!  
_ "Emphh, right, yeah, fair point, that makes sense..."  
Aziraphale patted down his jacket pockets.  
"Car keys, oil, wafer, wine, notes..." he muttered. "Lord, I wish people would just do this well ahead of time instead of waiting until the last, bloody minute... Stole is in the car... I'm off then."  
"I'll just pop my shoes back on and -" Crowley started but Aziraphale waved him off.  
"No time for that," Aziraphale said briskly. "I'm already off. You can see yourself out, can't you, dearest? Maybe put a stopper in the wine? Second drawer from the top, there's a good boy."  
Crowley blinked owlishly while Aziraphale hastily headed for the front door.  
"I, uh... Ngk. Yeah. A'ight."  
"Mind how you go, when you go, my dear," Aziraphale said over his shoulder. "Don't worry about locking up, it doesn't matter. Just turn off the lights before you go, yes?"  
And with that, he was gone, leaving Crowley dumbfounded in the middle of the sitting room.  
Crowley helped himself to another quick splash of red and drained his glass before grabbing the bottle and Aziraphale's glass. He put the glasses in the kitchen sink after quickly rinsing them out and dug through the second drawer from the top, finding a little plastic basket in a corner beside a disorderly collection of uncategorisable kitchen tools, containing a number of a few different, angel themed wine stoppers. He stuffed one with golden wings into the bottle and left it by the sink, before he turned off the lights and returned to the sitting room. It was odd... Just being left on his own at Aziraphale's place, just... willy-nilly. Like it was fine, totally fine, that Crowley just... bumbled about in there, unsupervised. Like there was nothing unusual about Crowley being there, at all.   
Crowley snorted softly to himself. Aziraphale had accused him of deliberately trying to screw up someone's marriage, clearly not trusting Crowley not to use nefarious means to push things in the direction he believed to be the right one, but was clear perfectly fine with just leaving Crowley to his own devices in Aziraphale's home.   
_We're all watching.  
_ He was not seeing ghosts. Or maybe he was... Aziraphale had said as much. But at least other people were also on the look-out. Other people had recognised that they might have to step in at some point. Not as severely as Crowley feared, but... step in all the same.   
And they would. If nothing else, Aziraphale would.   
That lonely, little kid worrying about the next fight and how his school uniform trousers were getting too short and wondering how everyone seemed to be staring without seeing him... That kid could relax.   
The realisation left him feeling sluggish, worn out as if he had been straining himself physically, a void left behind where the nervousness under his skin had been, in which the echo of it all now rang and Aziraphale had gone, taking his candy floss stuffing with him rather than filling out the gap...  
Crowley wanted the candy floss back.  
And he knew how, too.

As he sped home he pondered the fact that what he was about to do was probably the opposite of being 'a good boy' as Aziraphale had said - also ignoring the fact that that particular statement had been completely unconnected to any sort of activity even remotely similar to what Crowley was planning. But one thing no one could take away from Crowley was his active imagination and he could damn well dream whatever he wanted! He could be good for Aziraphale...   
Perhaps, he figured, as he left his clothes in a trail starting by his front door and leading to his bedroom, Aziraphale could even learn to enjoy letting Crowley be good for him in this way... How perfect would that be, snuggling up in Aziraphale's arms, feeling those warm hands running over his skin, dragging red welts in their wake or balling into fists in his hair...   
Crowley was panting like he had run a marathon, and his body was screaming impatiently for him to get on with it and be rid of the post-jitters of stress as he quickly went to the bathroom to wash his hands and then dug through his bedside drawer, pulling out lube and a zipper-up leather case. He stepped over his discarded pants and climbed onto his bed, snuggling up in his pillows before unzipping the leather case. The metal rods gleamed at him as he chewed on his lip, trying to decide on what he wanted. He had been so damn wound up - first from pining for Aziraphale and then from that whole blasted thing with being dragged into his neighbours' failing marriage - and the crash threatening to overtake him would not be a pleasant one... Unless he could postpone it, just a bit, make it something else... Get himself a calm high to end his day on.   
It would have to sting.   
As he carefully plucked out a bumpy sounding rod, he vaguely recalled Aziraphale's horror at the concept and the blond's genuine confusion how that could ever be pleasurable... But then again, that had been ages ago. So many things had happened between them since then, including Aziraphale happily - and irritatingly attractively - talking over Crowley, ordering his food and setting him up on bloody _play dates_ with Moneypenny's stupid husband...   
And although Crowley knew Aziraphale would protest if confronted with the fact, he also knew that his little Angel would protest rather too much if Crowley ever were to point out that Aziraphale quite _liked_ when Crowley went along like a good boy.  
So maybe Aziraphale could learn to like this too, Crowley mused as he smeared the slit of his throbbing cock with lube before coating the sound and nudging the end of it in. Maybe Aziraphale could learn to let Crowley be a good boy for him like this as well?   
Crowley screwed his eyes shut against the sensation of just _too much_ happening, as parts of him were stretched ways they were not really, technically, strictly speaking meant to be stretched. The feeling of _too much_ spread through his veins, filling the criss-cross pattern where the itch had crawled about and numbing Crowley's tired brain. This was exactly what he had needed... He let his head lol back against the headboard and hissed as he pushed the sounding rod further and further in.  
If Aziraphale would just give it a chance, Crowley would be _so_ good for him, would take it so well, would let Aziraphale pull his hair and leave bite marks and bruises on his skin...  
With a moan, Crowley began fucking the rod in and out of slit. It felt way too tight - what Aziraphale called it? _Not right_ , that was it. Maybe that was it... But it felt so much less wrong than so many other things and it was completely within Crowley's control, even as his mind's eye happily painted a picture of Aziraphale's hand guiding the rod in and out of Crowley's hard-on, rather than Crowley's own.   
"Angel..!"  
If Aziraphale could only have been there with him, holding him, telling him how well he was taking it, what a _good boy_ he was being...  
Crowley would have done anything to be a good boy for Aziraphale in that moment, would have endured _anything_. Anything, as long as Aziraphale never stopped making his head feel fuzzy and his legs weightless...  
Crowley pushed the rod all the way in with a growl, striking the sweet spot deep inside himself.  
If Aziraphale would let him show how much he enjoyed this... How brilliant it would be if Aziraphale would just hold Crowley and drag him face-first through this as he did with so many other things and watch Crowley come apart for him, begging for Aziraphale to do as he pleased as long as it could make Crowley feel something other than the mess inside his head...  
"Yes... Angel, please..!"  
Crowley's left hand had been buried in his hair, yanking sharply on his red locks, but now it moved to his cock to stroke at the lube-sticky head, while the right hand continued to fuck his slit with the sounding rod.   
Aziraphale would definitely be convinced about the merits of all of this if he could see Crowley right now...   
In Crowley's mind, Aziraphale would be endlessly intrigued by the view and it only took a few more strokes before he quickly had to pull out the rod and came all over his hand, groaning and hissing. Then he slumped back against the headboard, eyes closed and brain completely cotton fluffy and his body whirring both from the glorious discomfort and the gratification of orgasm. He would have to go get cleaned up before he feel asleep, but his body felt so heavy and calm in that moment, that his bedware would just have to learn to live with whatever stains it was dealt, lube or otherwise.  
As he sat there, seated between the lube bottle and the leather case containing the rest of his small but select collecting of sounding rods, Crowley wondered if he would ever actually be able to show that sort of thing to Aziraphale. Aziraphale had been, if not entirely inexperienced, still a de facto _virgin_ when first confronted with the concept and... well. Sounding was not exactly page 3 of Sex 101. No wonder he had found it a bit daunting.   
_Horrendously off-putting and wrong, but go on...  
_ With a put-down sigh, Crowley got up from the bed and trudged off to the bathroom, sounding rod in one hand and the other frozen in an odd pose as his spunk cooled down on his skin. He decided to treat himself to a nice, long, scalding shower since he was there anyway, and took his time under the hot spray, thoroughly cleaning the sounding rod and even shampooing, rather than having to do so in morning. He quickly blow-dried his hair, settling on simply throwing it in a bun the following day rather than worrying about making his curls pop and slunk back into his bedroom. He wiggled into his pajamas and zipped the sounding rod away with its mates in the leather case, before dumping the case and the lube in the bedside drawer and kicking it shut. Then he climbed under his duvet and nestled into his pillows with a light yawn.   
Maybe he would not be sharing this sort of thing with Aziraphale. Maybe some things were just better left private. It was hardly like it was going to be an issue, anyway. Aziraphale was not around at all time, they did not have all the opportunities Crowley would have liked for them to have. Hell, at the rate things were going, they would never actually get around to shagging ever again, wot with the way things kept coming up and with all the sneaking around...  
Crowley sighed and rolled onto his back with a frown. It was a fool's errand, this. Someone like him, carrying on with a priest. It was doomed to fail, doomed to be a disaster, a secret, shameful disaster, consisting of interrupted kisses and longing for things that Aziraphale and his high expectations for himself and his own morality did not condone...   
With a noise of regret, Crowley lolled his head to one side, reaching automatically for his phone to check the time and set an alarm to get him up in the morning.   
Which was not there, of course since he had not bothered to bring it. It was still in the pocket of his jeans.   
Grumbling and cursing, full of glum thoughts about the pointlessness of how badly he had it for Aziraphale and how bloody unfair it was that the whole entire Universe was ganging up on him like that, Crowley shuffled to the hallway and found his jeans. Just as he had dug in two fingers to fish his phone out of his pocket, the apparatus buzzed.  
Crowley frowned. Who the fuck was texting him at... ten in the evening. He had been trying to go to bed at _ten in the evening_.   
His displeasure at the fact that he was apparently turning completely geriatric was, however, quickly dispelled by the fact that the text had come from none other than _Angel_. Crowley quickly opened it, nearly bouncing as he returned to his warm nest under his duvet.  
 _My apologies that I had to cut our evening short. -A  
_ _PS: I would have preferred to phone, but at this hour I did not want to disturb you in case you had retired for the night. You have had a long day. In that case, I hope this does not wake you and you sleep well, dear.   
_Crowley slowly made his way through the text, his brain slowly waking up again. He was torn between smirking and groaning tiredly at the long post scriptum. And the fact that Aziraphale had _signed_ a text, when he had even shouted at Crowley for saving his phone number.   
_No problem. You had your duties  
_ It took him a few extra checks to make sure 'duties' was spelled correctly before hitting send.  
The reply took so long to come that he figured that conversation was over for the time being, but his heart weirdly skipped a beat when his phone ping'd once more;  
 _Oh, you are up! I hope this is not my doing.   
__Yes, it is always stressful when duties overlap. Not at all my favourite part of working alone. -A  
_ Crowley staggered his way through the message, then frowned a bit before replying.  
 _I'm a duty?   
_This time the reply came much sooner;  
 _Are you not? -A  
_ Crowley furiously tried to spell both 'parishioner' and 'congregant', but his phone seemed utterly confused at this and was no help at all. In the end Crowley gave up with a low growl and dialed down his expectations for himself;  
 _Your not my priest  
_ He glared a the text conversation until Aziraphale's reply appeared;  
 _I never said I was. -A  
_ "Stop signing your fucking texts, you idiot, I know who you are!" Crowley howled, because Aziraphale claiming some sort of responsibility for Crowley, unrelated to his job, was just... a whole lot, and shouting at his phone screen was easier. A surly reply and a change of topic seemed wise.   
_You done with your gig?  
_ There. That sounded nice and maybe a tad blasé too, but Aziraphale would enjoy scoffing at it, Crowley figured. Never mind that neither he nor his phone had had any brilliant ideas on how to spell 'hospice'. It was worth it, though, when Aziraphale's reply came;  
 _You are a horror.   
__Yes, I am back home. -A  
_ Crowley smirked. Seemed like it had been over quickly  
 _Boozing on your free wine after a job well done?  
_ It took several long minutes for a reply to manifest, but when it did, it made Crowley's heart flutter a little, in ways jaded, blackened former prossie-turned-jetset playboy hearts should not be able to flutter;  
 _I thought we could finish it some other time. -A  
_ Crowley briefly considered getting dressed and letting 'some other time' be _now_ , _immediately_ , but then realised that he was actually... quite tired. Exhausted, really.   
_Some other time yea. About to go to bed rite now  
_ He let his phone drop onto his pillow and snuggled in, his eyelids growing heavy with the promise of 'some other time'. He barely managed to stay awake for Aziraphale's next reply;  
 _Sleep well, dear boy. -A  
_ Crowley did not manage to reply. He just feel asleep clutching his phone - and a bunch of careful hopes for this whole 'carrying on with a priest' business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO ANYWAY, I FINALLY MANAGED TO UPDATE THIS. BIG SORRIES TO EVERYONE, SRSLY. Life has been weighing on my household a bit lately, and this ch was kinda complicated to write... I put some smut in the end of it, as an apology T-T
> 
> Oh, and if anyone's been wondering, the telly show that Arthur and Crowley are banging on about is that thing that Adam's parents are watching in the sitting room in one scene. Neil released the script for the bit we hear in the background, coming off the telly, and it was so hilariously cheesy that it became a whole thing in my head.


End file.
